


Picking Up The Pieces

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Fade to Black, Healing, Implied Torture, M/M, POV First Person, Self-Doubt, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting abducted during a mission has many far-reaching consequences for both Will and his relationship with Ethan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Up The Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Will. Self-beta'd.
> 
> ~ As summaries go, this one I suspect is even worse than my usual attempts. Sorry.
> 
> ~ This fic... very nearly wasn't. I wrote approximately a third of it before losing the... urge... and moved on to other things. Hating having something unfinished just sitting there and taunting me though, I eventually went back to it and managed to push ahead to an ending, so... I don't know. It may or may not 'work'. I'm only posting it now in order to feel as though I've 'achieved' something while I continue beta'ing a much longer fic. That, and I'm currently completely clueless in respect to what I could have a go at writing next and am simply looking around for things to do...
> 
> ~ As always, thank you to those who have left kudos on my previous fics, and... Enjoy!

=================  
Picking Up The Pieces  
by TalithaX  
=================

 

If not for the gag wrapped with bruising tightness around my mouth and the small fact that I suspect the man-mountain with the bad teeth and sadistic gleam in his eyes standing before me has no sense of humour whatsoever, I'd actually congratulate my captors on their picture perfect interrogation room. I've not, despite my career having introduced me to far too many of them over the years, seen better and honestly think the sick and twisted bastards – who it just has to be said I've always thought most likely enjoy their job far too much – in charge of training back at HQ could learn a thing or two from it.

Tiled, for reasons of both acoustics and amenability to cleaning. Carpet, after all, is a bitch to clean, and while blood stains of previous victims might be a nice touch in terms of adding to the apprehension, over time they begin to smell and, really, who wants that? Just because you're about to torture someone doesn't mean that you have to suffer too.

A de rigueur wall of one-way glass so others can enjoy the show without, and this is important, it really is, running the risk of being hit by a stray splash of blood or flailing limb.

A sturdy, beyond sturdy even, wooden chair positively groaning under the wait of chains and cuffs attached to it. And, despite the fact that you'd have to be the Hulk to move the damn thing, it's bolted to the floor. You know, just to really make sure the sucker strapped to it isn't ever going anywhere. 

Then there's the autopsy, or maybe it's an embalming table – what with not being able to turn my head I can't really be certain – but, whichever one it is it's still a nice touch. Much nicer than a basic wooden table with more straps and cuffs attached to it as this way all that pesky bodily fluid has somewhere to go other than straight on the floor.

And who can miss the seemingly never ending collection of metal – they may not always be sharp but they always have to be metal – implements neatly lined up on the stainless steel trolley that can be easily wheeled from chair to table and back again. I don't even know what some of the implements are and can quite happily go to my grave – which, hey, let's face it, is a definite possibility here – remaining blissful in my ignorance. Some of them even have tiny patches of dried blood on them which is a nice touch. Pristine and glinting in the light is ominous in itself, but being able to see that they've already been used? I don't know, for some reason that's just makes it worse somehow.

Mood lighting in the form of bare fluorescent strips attached to a dimmer switch so that, again, those visiting you don't have to hurt their eyes by having to work under the brilliant, blinding light you'll no doubt be left in.

Huge bucket of water – check. Hose attached to a high pressure tap – check. Manacles bolted into the wall – check. Strangely antique looking electrical device – check. Yet another stainless steel trolley complete with lovingly displayed collection of hypodermic syringes containing God knows what – check. Large air vent directly above the aforementioned chair and touch pad to control the temperature on the wall by the door (so you can see them fuck with it before they leave, of course) – check. Speakers mounted in all four corners of the room so they can share their love of high pitched electronic beeping or thrash metal with you – check. Defibrillator (in case the pesky subject becomes all unreliable and attempts to die before having coughed up their secrets) – check. 

Personally, I think it all smacks of overkill a little but, whatever, it's not like I'm here because they're wanting a critique of their set-up.

Seriously, it's just fucking perfect. So perfect even that if there was a prize for the most stereotyped 'We Mean Business' interrogation room I'd hand it over to them in a heartbeat. Hell, when I'm rescued I may just have to suggest to Ethan that he take a photo of it for future reference as I'm sure it'd have to come in handy somewhere along the line. I mean, why reinvent the wheel when you can just copy someone else's hard work and be done with it in a quarter of the time?

Call it cockiness if you like – although I prefer extreme confidence in my team, myself – but, despite the you'd-have-to-be-both-blind-and-the-stupidest-person-alive-to-miss-it threat of future suffering in the room, I'm not afraid. I'm uncomfortable, given that I'm strapped naked to a chair with metal cuffs digging into my wrists and ankles, and I really don't like the way the knuckle-dragging oaf in the, once again de rigueur, leather apron, is sizing me up, but, really, I'm not too bothered.

My predicament is unfortunate, granted, and, okay, it may possibly be thanks to my own stupid fault for not paying better attention to my surroundings that caused me to be grabbed in the first place, but my team will already know that I'm missing and they'll be leaving no stone unturned in their desperate hunt to find me. Ethan's relentless at the best of times, but seeing as I'm the one in need of rescuing he'll be like a force of nature, uncontrollable by anyone or anything and focused solely on successfully completing the task in as short a time as possible.

In fact, he's probably already in the building.

So...

I just have to wait it out for another couple of minutes and, regardless of all the hard work put into their menacing room, it will be all over.

~*~

“I tell you, we are wasting our time. This one, he is useless.”

“He is still IMF, and for that reason alone I say we continue. You just haven't found the right button to push yet. Find it and I am confident he will sell out his own mother.”

“And I am telling you it is a waste of time. We may as well just kill him and be done with it. He is not going to talk and I think it's fairly clear that as a trap he has failed dismally. It has been what, four days now, and no one has bothered to mount a rescue attempt, so... What does that tell you? We picked up the runt of the litter, the one no one wants. I told you we should have waited for the chick.”

“I still think...”

“The longer we stay in one place the bigger the risk we run in getting caught. Just because IMF can not be fucked coming to collect one of their own does not mean that all those other interfering mother-fuckers ain't still sniffing around and trying to bring us down. The plan was a good one, yeah, show 'em who was boss and all that, but it ain't worked.”

“You're probably right. Just... Let's give it one more day, yes? We will work on getting him to talk for one more day before cutting our losses and splitting. How does that sound?”

“As he has probably only got a day left in him, yes, fine, whatever. I'm hungry though, so I have to have something to eat first.”

“Come on then, I'll shout you a pizza.”

Famished though he may be, the... far more creative than I originally gave him credit for... torturer remembers to up both the brightness of the overhead lights and the chill factor of the air before he leaves but, probably knowing that there's no longer anything to be achieved from it, that the rattly, rasping sound of my own breath is worse than anything he could pipe through the speakers, doesn't bother with flicking on the deafening music. I watch, through the one eye I can still see reasonably clearly from, them leave from my strung up position on the back wall and feel... nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Four days ago I laughed in the face of fear because I was confident of being rescued. Now I'm indifferent – having travelled full circle from facing up to and (somehow) living through it – to it because, quite literally, I'm simply too broken and numb to care. Training and stubbornness keep me alive, but hope, the mere concept of there being so much as a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, is now completely dead. The pain, the ever-present and all-consuming pain, has reached a point where that's all it is, just... pain, and, because everything already hurts, the threat of any fresh torture is effectively meaningless. There is no part of my body that has not been abused and while, yes, there's nothing to stop them from reopening a wound or excavating around in it, I know that I won't feel it, that the damage has already been well and truly done.

It's not in me to give up, not totally anyway, and I'm not for a second saying I want to die, but... nor can I find it in myself to care anymore. I cared when, clutching at straws as to a logical explanation for why I was still here, I thought they might have captured the others too, but now...

Now that I know that's definitely not the case, that they simply haven't come, I don't, I... can't... care.

My captors must be right in that, and there's simply no two ways of looking at it, I am both useless and not worth – anything – enough to IMF for them to come to my rescue. I know, when push comes to shove, that the small print dictates that when the chips are down you're on your own, that you're not to expect the organisation to come to your aid and need to rely on your own resources, but... That's always only been the official take. For those of us on the ground, at the coal face so to speak, the unspoken belief has always been that you're never truly on your own, that whatever it takes you'll always be come for. I've never, regardless of any orders coming down direct from the Secretary, known for an agent to be just... abandoned...

And, as if the torture and sense of – worthlessness – abandonment wasn't bad enough, I honestly thought Ethan cared about me, that what we were slowly beginning to make together had the chance of becoming something special.

But, whatever...

Stupid. Useless.

It's not like I'm going to be around much longer anyway, so what's there to care about?

~*~

“Fuck! Hey, there's someone in here!”

“Shit. Is he alive?”

“How the fuck would I know? He looks like he's been worked over pretty badly.”

“News flash, Einstein, the living have something called a pulse. It can be found in the neck...”

“Yeah, yeah. Whoever told you that you were funny lied, okay.”

The voices of newcomers meaning nothing to me, I put both their chatter and the feel of the tentative hand groping around my throat for proof of life down to being a figment of my increasingly delusional imagination. Having given up on getting anything out of me and no longer even finding entertainment in the art of torture solely for torture's sake, the Carter brothers packed up their toys and just up and left... however many hours or days it was ago. They debated killing me and being done with it but in the end, apparently for no other reason than they couldn't decide on who'd get the honour of doing it, settled on simply leaving me hanging here. Not exactly surprisingly, time has lost all meaning and I have no idea how long I've been – waiting to die – here on my own.

“Shit!” The hand suddenly leaves the base of my neck and grabs hurriedly at the manacle holding my wrists above my head. “He's alive! Get over here and help me get him down.”

Still not believing any of this to be real and unable to either lift my head or open my eyes even if I particularly wanted to, I allow my apparent rescuers to manhandle me down onto the cold floor without acknowledging their presence and, because it would take energy I simply don't have, don't so much as whimper.

“Hey... You know something? I think I recognise him.”

“Through all those injuries? If you can see someone you know through all that mess then, seriously, you're doing better than me.”

“Mmm... Brant or Brand or something like that. He's IMF.”

“IMF?”

“Yeah. We met at some conference or training thing last year.”

Which, if any of this was actually real, would mean these two are probably CIA... or ATF... or FBI... An agency other than mine at any rate.

“But... If he's IMF, why is he still here? I haven't even heard any chatter about them having lost one of their own, have you?”

“Nope. But I'm telling you, he's IMF and on Hunt's team, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Ethan Hunt? Shit. Then that just makes the fact he's still here even stranger.”

“Tell me about it. Oh God, look... There's burns on his...”

“Gentlemen,” a new, somewhat commanding voice announces from the doorway, “just because IMF clearly don't give a shit about their agent doesn't mean that we have to follow their lead. The man deserves to be treated with respect so, Palmer, cover him with your jacket and you, Stirling, call for the paramedics while I get IMF's Secretary on the phone and give him the good news we've found their agent for them.”

~*~

“If I find any discrepancies in your story, or have any further questions, I'll be back.”

Logic screams at me to snap a sarcastic retort, something along the lines of, 'yeah, well, you know where to find me', or, alternatively to just go the blunt route and tell the officious prick to go fuck himself, but I simply lack the energy required to do anything other than stare blankly at the door as he disappears through it. And, sadly, even that's taking far more out of me than I care to admit to.

Agent Nathaniel Preston. Young. Clark Kent hairstyle and blank, Ken doll facial features. Expensive, no doubt bespoke suit and handmade shoes. Nasally, whiny voice and a body odour problem that the far too liberal application of aftershave does little to combat. Fresh no doubt from some prestigious university and so fucking puffed up with self importance at having scored an administration position at the IMF that he believes not only his own publicity but also that it's his way or the highway.

I want – if only I could – to both go after him and to rant at him, to explain in no uncertain terms that not only are people skills well and truly not his forte but also that he's a complete asshole who should never be allowed out of the office and, hey, while I'm at it, if I ever have the misfortune of laying eyes on him again it will be far too soon. I want, not because I either want his pity or even to see for myself whether he has any concept of empathy, to know whether, at any point during his interrogation, he paused to view me as the victim in all of this. I want to know if this all went perfectly to plan for him, that he achieved everything he wanted to and that, right now, he's patting himself on the back and quite feeling content with his lot in life.

I want...

I want to know if this is what he wanted, that reducing me to a trembling wreck who can't even open his own mouth for fear of nothing coming out other than a pitiful whimper was what he'd truly hoped to achieve. If it was, then, seriously, the bastard deserves a gold star for a job exceptionally well done. Sure, it was all coached in terms of just wanting my official statement for the record. That he was confident I had nothing to worry about and that I just needed to both tell my story and to answer all of his questions with openness and honesty. I was never to think I was under investigation at all. No. Of course not. He was only here because he had to be and, so long as I told the truth, I could trust him implicitly, that as a fellow IMF employee he was on my side.

Now, the thing is, I've given statements before. They're part and parcel of the job. Written mission reports. Oral statements direct to either the Secretary himself or a committee of suits who have long forgotten what it's like to be out in the field. I've even spent an entire day in one meeting or interview after another in order to justify my reasons for wanting to leave field work after what – I thought – happened in Croatia. I know the game. I know both the purpose of it and what's expected of me. I also know the importance of all the facts being crystal clear and that, in the security business, careful documentation is your friend.

I'm not, contrary to how I'm beginning to feel and what Preston no doubt thinks about me, stupid.

Of course I was going to tell the truth. Christ. Why wouldn't I? As much as I might have liked to have taken some of what happened to me to my grave, my – dot pointed and photographed – injuries were never going to let me keep anything to myself, so... What did I have to hide? Nothing. I had absolutely nothing to hide and, well, as surprising as this might seem to a prick like Preston, I'm all for the file on the Carter brothers being kept as up to date and as thorough as possible as hopefully it'll give us a better chance of catching the fuckers. Lying about anything hadn't even crossed my mind. Just... Why would it? I was, as much as I might hate using the word in relation to myself, the victim here.

Did Preston care about any of this though? Hell no. He had pages of questions to get through and, without skipping a single one or acknowledging that, really, albeit worded differently, a number of the questions were essentially the same, he was going to get through them. End of story. For over three hours he threw question after question at me. He even, with a cold look and an arrogant flick of his hand, dismissed a nurse who had dared – interrupt – come and check on me, the physical wreck who'd been admitted less than twenty-four hours ago and who, really, shouldn't have even been out of bed let alone propped up in a wheelchair and being given the third degree.

He, and there's simply no other way of looking at it, made me feel as though I was either lying through my teeth or that I was somehow at fault. The repetitive nature of the questions were designed to trip me up and, just call me paranoid on top of everything else, I swear that's what he was looking for. He wanted to hear something that he could take back to HQ and declare that I'd either brought this all on myself – that, yes, absolutely my aim all along had been to be tortured and left for dead because, you know, that's how everything in my file indicates is how I roll – or, going on the obsessive nature of his final half an hour of questions, that I was actually a traitor to the IMF and in cahoots with the CIA.

Not once did he ask how I was feeling or whether I'd like to take a short break. Nor did he hesitate to list my injuries in cold and clinical detail before demanding to know what question went with what wound. I answered as best I could, and gave my word that I never, regardless of what they did to me, told them anything, but I don't think he believed me. Actually, I know he didn't. As far as Preston was concerned I was lying for some reason, that, as a highly trained IMF agent who had more than enough training and skills to not have been captured in the first place, I just had to be. I could see it clearly in his judgement filled eyes. He thought I was beneath him, that as a field agent I was a complete failure.

Quite frankly, given that the hospital room isn't overly big, I don't know how he was even able to bring himself to remain in the same space as me as I clearly disgusted him so much.

Maybe I'm over reacting and am only having an internal melt down because I'm overdue my next gloriously numbing dose of painkillers. Maybe if the tables were turned I'd have – all in the name of intel gathering, of course – hounded Preston exactly the same way he hounded me. Maybe the pain is simply distorting my views on everything and when I feel like myself again everything will revert to normal and I won't feel so paranoid, vulnerable and miserable.

Or maybe what I'm beginning to read between the lines is actually true, that IMF believe I failed them and that they no longer – if in fact they ever did – care what becomes of me.

What I do know for certain though, what I can't, however much I'd like to, hide from is that Nathaniel Preston is the first person from IMF to have come and seen me since I arrived at the hospital. 

Make that, first and only.

~*~

It's far from my finest moment, I'm aware of that and dutifully hate myself just that little bit more for it, but I...

I can't help it.

I don't want to be feigning a coma-like sleep while Benji and Jane hover by the bed, offering the explanations I've been longing to hear and just generally behaving as though they honestly want to be with me, but nor do I want them to know that I'm actually awake, that I have been pretty much ever since they walked into my room. If they know I'm conscious I'll have no excuse not to talk to them, and if I talk to them I just know I'm going to be instantly reduced to a plaintive, pleading wreck who, like a cracked record, will keep harping back to why – I was abandoned – it took the CIA to rescue me as opposed to my own team or, at the very least, my own agency.

Their story, which contrary to my complete lack of participation in they felt compelled – to use Jane's exact words, “Fuck it, Benji. I don't care if he's asleep, I've got to get this off my chest anyway, he... He's got to know that it was never meant to turn out like this.” – to share anyway, sounds perfectly plausible. Faultless, even. A dormant mission, one with far higher stakes than the one we were working on involving the Carter brothers and which both Ethan and Benji had worked on before, suddenly becoming active meant that they had to immediately pack up and ship out to Paris. They didn't want to, of course not, given that I was still missing and their number one priority, but the Secretary, along with promising to send in another team straight away to pick up where they left off, insisted. Ethan, by all accounts, huffed and puffed – and laughed in the face of yet another idle threat of being disavowed if he didn't play nice and toe the party line – but in the end, assured that the other team was close by, capitulated and that was just that.

They never wanted to leave me, God no. And the other mission was a fuck up from beginning to end because nobody could fully concentrate on it as they were too worried about me. The other team were a pack of rookies who hardly knew their ass from their elbow and who they know now would be lucky to successfully find a whore in a whorehouse. If they'd known, they never would have gone. Oh, and they're sorry. So incredibly – and here Jane actually teared up a little which, as I've never seen her cry before, not even at Agent Hanaway's funeral, very nearly caused me to sit up and give the game away – sorry. What's more, it'll never happen again, that as far as Ethan's concerned the Secretary can go fuck himself if he thinks he'll ever leave a team mate behind again.

There's no denying that everything that's come out of both Jane's and Benji's mouths is what I've been desperately waiting to hear. I was a victim of circumstance, that's all. It was never meant to happen, they didn't really abandon me at all, and they're relieved, no, make that ecstatic that I'm going to be okay.

It's all very believable. Expected, even. From everything they're saying to the fact I know – despite not having the courage to open my eyes and actually look at them – their story of having come straight to the hospital from the airport to be true as it doesn't matter how much perfume or aftershave you spray the only thing to truly get rid of the lingering smell of a long haul flight is a shower and a change of clothes. They came here, even though they were meant to go straight to HQ in order to hand their reports in, because they care about me and wanted to see for themselves how I was.

But...

It doesn't matter.

None of it matters. Not their incredibly believable explanation. Not their declaration that Ethan's on his way and will be here as soon as he possibly can. Not the inescapable fact that, unlike that fucker Preston who had no qualms about shaking me awake yesterday solely so he could ask the same questions he'd asked me the day before, they care enough not to make the most of their visit by waking me. 

Not even my own desire to – sit up and, to hell with how much it would hurt, let them both hug me – just put the past behind me and move forward.

It doesn't matter that's what done is done or that – if I was stronger, that is – I need to just accept that nothing's changed, that I have a lot to be thankful for.

None of it matters because the damage is already done.

Instead of the heartfelt concern in my friends' voices all I really hear is the contempt and derision of the Carters'... and the CIA... and Preston.

“This one, he is useless...”

“Just because IMF clearly don't give a shit about their agent...”

“I have to say, Brandt, that I'm not convinced you're being entirely truthful here...”

I allowed myself to be captured. Even my captors questioned my usefulness and it's only because of the CIA that I'm still here. Preston thinks I'm lying.

I can't let my friends see that I'm awake for fear of breaking down on them and handing yet more proof on a platter that I'm losing it, that I really am just a waste of space.

And...

Ethan still hasn't come to see me. 

It's viable, yeah, that he really is still finalising the mission in Paris, but I can't help but fall prey to the belief that he's simply avoiding me, that like everyone else apparently knows, I'm just not worth the effort, that, really...

I'm not worth anything.

~*~

If pretending to be asleep while Jane and Benji visited was – pathetic and unbecoming – bad, and hiding, in this case literally, behind the nursing staff's kind offer of telling visitors that I wasn't feeling up to seeing anyone and refusing to let Ethan into my room this morning was worse, then...

This is something else entirely.

Hell. This is so incredibly awful that it's of 'and the Oscar for the most over the top, uncharacteristic, melodramatic fucking melt down goes to...' proportions.

And what makes it just that little bit worse, which in itself is something of an achievement, is that I should have known in was coming. Not, that is, the epic, complete with both hyperventilating and trembling freak out, but Ethan sticking firmly to form and refusing to take no for an answer. I just...

Fuck.

I should have known.

I should have known he'd be back and I should have expected, even somehow prepared myself for it.

I should have...

Maybe I should have even forced myself to see him when, just as Jane and Benji assured me he would, he came – fresh from the airport – to the hospital this morning. God knows I didn't want to as just about the last thing I feel up to at the moment is having Ethan look at me with either concern or pity while he rehashes what the others have already done their best to get through to me, but... Seriously. I should have just manned up. For his sake more than mine I should have simply let him get it – the dutiful visit and the issuing forth with all the right, soothing words – over and done with. He could have apologised for putting the other mission before me and I could have reassured him that I both understood perfectly and didn't have a problem with it at all. It would have been awkward, yeah, but at least it would have gotten it out of the way and we could have moved directly on to going in our separate directions and putting the fact that we ever even knew each other behind us.

Just... 

Fuck.

This can't be happening. This... shouldn't... be happening. I'm not an openly emotional person. I may take things personally and occasionally feel things too deeply, but I keep it all to myself and don't show it. I don't make scenes, don't wear my heart on my sleeve and I definitely don't lose the fucking plot.

Well... That is, I didn't.

Now, though, I'm like one of those crazy people you'd either cross the street to avoid or want to shoot with a tranquilliser dart. My mind says one thing, that a small part of me dimly recalls is the right, logical reaction, the one that not so terribly long ago was instinctual, but while this is all well and good I can't actually follow through with any of it and default instead to behaving like someone I don't even know.

Just...

Nothing's right. I look at Ethan and instead of seeing my team mate, best friend and lover, I see someone, and this possibly even more for his benefit than my own, to simply avoid at all costs.

Let's face it, he doesn't need to see me – fracture – like this. Nor do I want to watch him struggle to not physically recoil at the sight of the injuries littering my bare flesh that can be seen given the t-shirt and pyjama pants I'm wearing, let alone for him to have to spare so much as a second thought on imagining what the rest of my body must look like. I don't want this, this image of a physical and mental wreck, to be his last memory of me. It's bad enough that he's going to be stuck with the memory of having had the misfortune of working with me without this scene forever both colouring and dominating it.

As, however, is becoming par for the fucking course, I can't help it. I just can't help... anything... these days. Common sense tells me to act one way, the way I know I should act and, indeed, want to act, but I just can't do it. I can't do anything other than hide from those I care about, wallow in self misery and, just for the cherry on top of it all, freak out.

“Will... Oh God, look... I'm sorry, I...”

“Just...” Numbly shaking my head, I hold my arms out of front of me as though I honestly believe I have any hope of fending Ethan off should he make to grab me and take a further unsteady step backwards. “Go... Please. I...”

I can't do this. I can't just limp back to my room after having endured an uninteresting session with my doctor where he quite calmly and cheerfully set out – rest, physio, multiple sessions with the IMF sanctioned shrink before, and I'm choosing to ignore how he thought this was what I'd want to hear, being able to dutifully present for duty – my next six weeks and deal Ethan. Especially as there's just no way, not even if he let his imagination run truly wild, he could even begin to understand what I'm going through. Not Ethan. Not IMFs most brilliant and self reliant agent. He'd never find himself in a situation where he'd end up being accidentally rescued by the CIA. God no. It wouldn't matter how dire things would have got as somehow, and I'm not saying it would have been easy or even all that immediate, he would have been able to extricate himself from it. It's just what he does and it's what he, along with everyone who knows him, takes for granted.

Ethan would never react like this. He'd just shake himself off, put everything behind him – suck it up, in other words – and get on with it. This... Whatever it is I'm doing because I'm too weak to behave any differently, just... Christ. The mere concept of letting himself go like this would be completely foreign to him. Unnatural, even.

“Will... Hey... It's okay. Calm down...”

The unwanted sight of Ethan's hand reaching for me causing a pained, panicky noise – that for the life of me I can't even adequately describe as it's just that pitiful – to escape my lips, I stumble towards the bed and idly waste a few seconds on wishing that the floor would just up and swallow me whole. I mean, God knows this sad and sorry scene coming to an end would have to be in the best interests of all concerned. “I'm fine,” I wheeze, wildly gesturing at him to keep his distance. “Just... Go. Please.”

“Will...” Frowning, Ethan peers at me closely and, to my great relief, makes no attempt to come any closer. “You're clearly not fine. Now...” He sighs and glances over his shoulder towards the door. “Having clearly done enough damage for the time being, and you've got no idea how sorry I am for having upset you like this, perhaps I should go and find a nurse or doc...”

“That won't be needed, sir,” the familiar, English accented voice of my favourite nurse announces coolly from the doorway as, shooting Ethan an ominous look, she bustles into the room. “I do, however, think that it would be for the best if you were to leave now. Oh...” Coming to a stop by my side, she slides her arm around my waist and, as she begins to help me onto the bed, adds, “And next time you're informed that a patient is not wanting to receive visitors, you'd do well to respect it.”

~*~

Placing my cup carefully on the coffee-table, I settle myself as comfortably as I'm currently capable of in the armchair and reach for my book. Opening it to the page I'm up to, I remove the book mark and rest it on its customary place on the arm of the chair before starting to read. I used to, a lifetime or two ago, actually really enjoying reading and it was something I did for pleasure. Then, in the name of always needing to be on top of just about everything that was going on in the world, it became a chore, novels and escapism passed over for research and a seemingly never ending array of reports. And now, just for something different again, I read for no other reason than it offers me an adequate enough way to kill time. I read because it quietens the dull noise – the ceaseless internal argument between logic and self-doubt – in my head and gives me something do between every other mundane task in the daily time-table I've industriously worked out for myself since being discharged from hospital and left to my own devices.

Two sleeping pills – if I become addicted then, hey, so be it – get me through the night and, if I'm lucky, halfway through the morning. I then shower – in the dark because the pain emanating from the still healing injuries is enough of an insult without having to see them as well – before forcing down breakfast and settling in for my first reading stint of the day. This, after four or so hours have passed, I follow up – not because I'm hungry but because I feel as though I have to and, again, it gives me something to do – with making myself something to eat for lunch before going through the – motions – gentle exercises recommended by the physio. These... chores... out of the way, I dutifully – check in – phone Dr Atkins, IMFs premier shrink, to ensure him that I'm still here and, absolutely, am doing just fine, before making a coffee and returning to my book. Dinner, the super exciting task of aimlessly pawing through the contents of my kitchen until inspiration strikes and I force down another tasteless meal, follows and my day is then rounded off with dishes, another shower, a bit more of a read, and bed.

It gets me through the day and, because each hour is arguably allocated to some meaningless pursuit or another, stops me from dwelling on the sad and sorry state of sad and sorry life. Besides, I feel both weak and like complete crap anyway, so it's not exactly as though I'm up for doing anything much else. That, and what's the point anyway? Sure, I'd quite like the aching, lethargy and apathy to go away, but other than that it's hardly like I've got any great plans other than simply making it through each day as it comes.

I'm alive, I'm... pleased... to be alive, but that, really, is just about as good as it gets.

Dr Atkins, not that he's come out and said this to my face no doubt for fear of upsetting my delicate constitution, thinks I'm depressed or suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He may even, although he hasn't said this either and it may well just be my paranoia whispering in my ear, be of the opinion that I'm a suicide or self-harm risk and that's why he insists on the daily calls. I've tried, half heartedly and without any great effort because, simply put, I currently don't have it in me, to convince him that I'm fine and would in fact be even better if he stopped worrying about me, but I know he's just not buying it. Yesterday he even tentatively raised the issue of perhaps booking me into The Retreat, IMFs sumptuous... health spa... for basket case agents well past their prime. I went there once in order to try to get intel on an old case from an agent who had worked it and, seriously, it was like being in a cross between a nursing home and an expensive motel. Lovely, modern décor, and... blank eyed, zombie-like residents shuffling around and doing their best to distance themselves from reality. It was just... creepy, and I actually still retain enough of my wits about me to be offended by Atkins' suggestion that a voluntary – and the way he stressed that just made it worse as it was almost as though he was warning me 'involuntary' was still always an option – admission would probably do me the world of good.

I'm not depressed. I may not be full of life or even overly happy, but I'm not depressed. If I was depressed I wouldn't bother either getting out of bed or forcing myself to eat. Nor am I suffering from PTSD. What happened, happened. The Carter brothers hurt me physically, but it's not the memory of what happened to my body in that room that's hanging over my head like a heavy, suffocating fog. It's what... didn't... happen and what was said that I'm having difficulty escaping from. Atkins would argue, possibly even successfully, that that's as much a cause of PTSD as the torture, but I'd argue – and I like to think I'd win, given that I'm one who lived through it – that it's not, that the two things are actually entirely separate. One was real, very real, and the other is... 

Whatever. I'm not depressed and I don't have PTSD. I'm convalescing and no longer know either what I want from life or even what to expect from it, but that's it. Once I'm fully healed I'll allow – or, alternatively, force – myself to think about the bigger picture. Until then I'll just continue to both close myself off from those I once cared about and who I thought cared about me in return and – hide – sleepwalk through each day. It's not ideal, and I accept that I'm being weak, but it's what I've got. If the day comes where I decide to actually both print and post the letter of resignation on my laptop then... so be it. It will be my decision and mine alone.

Not, mind you, that I suspect anyone else would have an opinion on it. Not a positive – 'no, no, you're a valuable member of the team' – one at any rate. That, if nothing else, is pretty clear. I'll admit it's what I want, what, in fact, I've made incredibly clear I want, but, even so... I can't decide if their easy acceptance of my – melodramatic, vaguely panic-attack driven – desire to be left alone is because they don't want to set me off even further of whether it's because... they're just glad to be rid of my worthless ass.

I haven't seen Ethan since I freaked out on him in the hospital room over a week ago and, seeing as I refused to open my eyes when they visited, I haven't seen Benji or Jane since the morning before my unfortunate run in with the Carters. It's the longest we've been... apart... since first meeting in Moscow two years ago and as hard as I try not to, I miss them. I miss my friends and the sense of belonging and even contentment being with them always used to install in me, but...

Again, whatever. I chose to fully chase them away, just as I alone chose to remove the sim card from my cell phone and to screen the few and far between calls that come through on the landline. After all, the cleaner the break the better it is for all concerned. They can forget they ever had the misfortune to both know and work with me and we can all move forward.

The sound of the front doorbell suddenly ringing throughout the house both surprising me and putting me immediately on edge, I mark the page I was reading with the bookmark and place the book on the arm of the chair. There being no one I can think of having either any cause to want to see me or gain entrance to my house for some unknown reason, I have no intention of opening the door and don't even really know why I bothered putting my book down. Despite – or possibly even... in spite of – it being, or so I gather from what little I've seen of it through the back windows, a glorious summer day, the front of the house is shut up tight and with any luck the person on my doorstep will either assume that no one's home or that, if they are, they're probably so hermit-like in nature that they'd be best avoided anyway.

Or perhaps, as there goes the damn doorbell again, not.

Biting back a sigh of – leave me the fuck alone, if I wanted to see you I would have opened the door already – annoyance, I reach for my book and have just flipped it open when a sound even stranger than the doorbell penetrates the still silence of the house.

A key or jemmy of some description being, none too easily going by the muffled scraping sounds, fitted into the lock.

Just... What the fuck?

Far more annoyed than I was a second ago, I throw my book onto the coffee-table and stand up. Walking out of the living room, I position myself in the doorway, where I have a direct line of sight to the front door, and, not really knowing what else to do, just wait for whoever it is on the other side of the door to succeed in getting it open. Yes, I could step up to the door and hopefully give them the shock of their lives by wrenching it open on them. I could even make the not exactly onerous effort to arm myself with any one of the numerous weapons scattered around the place. Do I, however? Do I do either of things?

Why, no. Of course not. That would require both initiative and an actual degree of care on my part, both of which I currently lack.

So... Seriously, whatever. I just don't care. Burglar. Assassin. That prick Preston because he's still convinced I'm hiding something and wants to search the house. Dr Atkins because he's not buying the bullshit 'I'm fine' spiel I'm feeding him and has come to cart me off to The Retreat. Just... Whatever. What will be will be. God knows I've got no control over it.

Folding my arms across my chest in a classic defensive pose, I glare at the door as my unwanted interloper finally manages to both unlock it and shove it open. This done, he half stumbles, half falls across the threshold and...

And I'm so taken aback by the sight of who it is that, feeling both breathless and light headed, I have to lean back against the doorframe for support.

Ethan.

Fuck.

Ethan on crutches of all things and, assuming this is actually real and I'm not just experiencing some weird ass hallucination caused by too many sleeping pills, looking just a little grey and tired around the edges.

Again... What the fuck?

The proverbial cat well and truly having a firm hold on my tongue, words – along with the ability to move – escape me at this strange turn of events and I watch with mute surprise as coming to a stop in the middle of the corridor, Ethan glances over his shoulder and frowns at the still open front door. Sighing, he starts to turn around in order to go back and shut it and that's, going on the surprised look on his face, when he first notices me.

“Oh...” Wobbling slightly on his crutches and making an obvious point not to bear weight on his left foot, Ethan quickly hides any adverse reaction to my creepy, silent presence behind a smile. “You are home, then. I thought, given that you didn't answer the doorbell, that...” Trailing off, he gives an ungainly shrug, shakes his head and, to my ever increasing shock – and let's just add... awe... in there while I'm at it – begins to limp along the corridor. “What?” he adds over his shoulder as I continue to stand frozen in the doorway. “You didn't honestly think I was just going to take your 'I want to be alone' routine at face value and give up on you now, did you? You're stuck with me, Will, you should know that by now.” 

Still totally devoid of so much as a freaking clue in respect to how I should be reacting to any of this, I shift just far enough out of the doorway to get a better view of the front door and notice both A) that there's a small overnight bag on my doormat and B) there's a Cocker Spaniel – being walked by a far too blonde woman wearing a far too pink hot pants / tank top ensemble – in the process of taking a piss on my letterbox. Normally this – the dog and its clueless owner who's actually defiantly making eye contact with me, as though she's daring me to react, at any rate – would cause a flicker of displeasure in me, but not today. Today it's just par for the fucking course and for a moment I wish I'd gone to the bother of retrieving a gun as waving that at the both oversized and overweight Barbie clone staring up my path at me would at least demonstrate to her in no uncertain terms that she'd be wise to watch where her damn dog wishes to relieve itself in the future.

Taking a deep, in no way calming breath, I walk up to the front door, grab the bag from the mat and, after flicking Barbie the bird, slam the door shut. I then – not that it apparently does me any good in keeping out unwanted guests – make sure it's locked before heading down the corridor in search of Ethan. Finding him, not, thankfully in my bedroom, where for a dreadful moment I half expected to find him setting up camp, sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest bedroom, I throw the bag onto the floor and position myself once again in the doorway.

“Thanks for bringing my bag in,” Ethan comments, choosing to gloss over the unimpressed expression I just know has to be spread across my face in favour of gesturing weakly at the crutches leaning against the bedside table. “Still getting a hang of those damn things I'd forgotten all about it.”

Refusing point blank to ask the obvious – 'just what the hell are you doing here? – question, I shrug and, narrowing my eyes, look at him expectantly. There's no denying he doesn't look particularly well but, having been so unceremoniously thrown out of my current comfort zone, I quash my concern in preference of presenting an uninterested façade.

“I...” Ethan flashes me a hopeful smile. “I can explain.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I shrug again and murmur flatly, “I'm waiting.”

His eyes widening at the fact I've finally spoken, Ethan nods and glances down at his knees. “You know how my left knee has never been fully right since Mumbai, yeah, well...” Pausing, he pulls a face and rolls his eyes. “Believe it or not I fell off the climbing wall back at HQ yesterday and...”

“You fell off the climbing wall?” I interrupt, the disbelief I'm feeling at IMFs resident Spiderman- equivalent falling off something as mundane as the climbing wall in the gym coming through loud and clear in my voice. “I don't believe it.”

“Well... Believe it,” Ethan retorts drily. “I obviously wasn't fully concentrating...”

“Or wearing a harness...” I don't want to be... engaging... with Ethan or giving him the mistaken impression that I'm actually perfectly fine with him taking over my guest room like this, but I just can't help it.

“Or, you're right, breaking a habit of a lifetime and wearing a harness,” Ethan agrees with a wry smile. “So, anyway, I fell off the wall and banged up my left knee again. Dr Simpkins performed an arthroscopy last night and did whatever he had to do though and, all being well, it'll be back to normal in five or so weeks.”

Uh-huh. Okay. That explains the crutches and why he's looking off his game. What it doesn't explain, however, is what he's doing here. “And?” I prompt, giving him another expectant look.

“And... Dr Simpkins wanted to keep me in the infirmary unless someone would... go guarantor, if you like, in terms of having me signed out to their care.”

“Oh.”

“Luther did the signing part but, as I'm sure you can imagine, wasn't up for the... uh... caring... part, so...” Ethan gives a weary shrug. “Here I am. Oh, and before you ask, Benji and Jane weren't an option as they're helping Turner out in North Carolina. I... and don't worry, I won't blame you if you don't believe me, I tried to get Luther to just take me home but, taking at least the signing of his name seriously, he wouldn't have a bar of it. I either had to find a baby-sitter or he was going to take me back to the infirmary.”

“Oh.” Honestly. What's he expecting me to say?

“It's okay, you won't have to do anything,” Ethan adds softly as he gestures down at his bag. “Everything I need is in the bag, I can call for take-out and, once the swelling has gone down, will be out of your hair in a couple of days. I apologise for landing on you like this and know that it's not ideal, that perhaps I'm not even being particularly fair on you, but...” Lifting his head, he looks me in the eye and sighs. “I'm glad that I'm here, Will, even if you're not.

~*~ 

It's only once I've turned off the lamp, closed my eyes and finished making myself as comfortable on the mattress as I'm currently capable of that I realise I've forgotten to take my sleeping pills. They're only on the bedside table, an arm's length away if that, but – proving that today is nothing if not a day of firsts – I decide after an internal debate that drags on for five minutes longer than it probably should have that I don't need them. Normally I take them because not only are they prescribed but I also feel that without them I'm highly unlikely to get to sleep. Living the the life of a couch potato, even one that's still healing physically, not being exactly what I'd call either strenuous or onerous, I've been going to bed basically feeling no different than I have at any other point during the day. Half-comatose, vague, and in more pain than I want to admit to, but not what you'd call especially tired and I know that if I didn't take them I wouldn't get to sleep. 

The threat of addiction, of becoming reliant on the deep, dreamless version of oblivion they offer, hangs over my head, but having enough on my plate as it is it's not the fear of becoming addicted – as, hey, in my current long list of flaws and faults, adding 'addict' to it would be of minor consequence at best – that's making me not want to take them tonight. No. It's the fact that I feel exhausted and have actually gone to bed because I quite literally don't have it in me to do anything other than rest my head on a pillow and close my eyes.

While you could hardly say I've done lot in the seven hours since Ethan invited himself into my home, I have nonetheless done far more than I have any of the previous four days I've spent mooching around the house since being discharged from hospital. Hell, I've researched, provided both nurse and chef duties, completed a load of laundry, got a good head start on cleaning out the kitchen cupboards, and... still... had enough spare time to sit at the dining table staring aimlessly into space while both stewing and fuming over Ethan – yet again – crash landing into my life. Compared to my usual day of reading, followed by more reading and, just for good measure, a bit more reading, it really is no wonder that I'm exhausted and just want to sleep.

The, complete with teeth grinding and wild flights of fantasy – reporting him to the police as a home invader, simply packing a bag and booking into a motel so as to leave him to it – sulk I had at the dining table as to how I could proceed with my guest was, however, far shorter and more succinct than I expected it to be. And that, simply, was that I didn't care. If Ethan wanted to convalesce in my guest room then, fine, whatever. Looking after him, in a professional, merely wanting what was best for him sense, would give me something to do and I was confident that I could see this through without having to really engage with him. It was, I will admit, a somewhat clinical decision, one born of both wanting to avoid conflict at all costs and knowing in myself that I can't hide behind a book for ever and that having something to do will probably, in the long run, be good for me.

It had nothing to do with either Ethan or what we once had together.

It can't.

When my thoughts tried to stray in that direction I hauled them back in and moved on to... educating myself... on just what it was I'd gotten myself into.

Regardless of Ethan's story of having fallen from the climbing wall being, and let's be totally honest here, too... lame... to be anything other than truth, I still – just to bury the question mark hanging over my head in relation to him simply faking it to both get into my house and corner me, of course – had to log into his personnel file and read Dr Simpkins' report for myself. And, what's more, it was the truth. He fell from near the top of the wall and, yes, he did land on his left knee. What he neglected to mention though was the concussion, the damage to his knee being bad enough that if the arthroscopy hadn't been able to repair the torn cartilage he was at serious risk of requiring a full knee reconstruction, oh, and the positively insignificant fact that Dr Simpkins' puts the reason for his fall down to general fatigue.

Fatigue.

Which everyone knows is medical-code for... teetering dangerously close to a burn out.

Both surprised by this and wishing that I hadn't read it as I'm not doing a very good job of coping with my own issues without having to contemplate – strong, dependable, unflappable and unbreakable – Ethan cracking around the seams as well, I quickly moved on from Dr Simpkins' report to Googling arthroscopies and learning all that I could about them. This done, I marched into the guest room armed with everything Ethan had neglected to tell me he needed to aid his recovery and set about both elevating his leg and icing his knee. He tried to talk to me, to offer more apologies and explanations, while I indulged in my brusque nurse routine but I just ignored him and focussed solely on my self-allocated task. Being a quick learner, he merely thanked me when I next returned to dump a tray containing dinner on the bedside table and that was pretty much just that.

He's in my guest room. I'll make sure he's fed, watered, and that he has everything he needs to assist in healing his knee, but that's it. If he expects anything more he's not going to get it, and I... can't... expect anything more. I just can't. 

The whole confused – best to bury and ignore – emotions thing aside though, I've already discovered that having Ethan here is incentive all in itself to get off my ass and to at the very least give the impression of being both active and busy. Feeling, be it logically or not, that he's propped up in bed solely to pass judgement on my dull, sloth-like life, I made a point of bustling around doing – whether they needed doing or not – household chores all afternoon and it's because of this that I'm so tired. Ethan, of course, seemed to be asleep every time I passed his door but that's actually beside the point. Because he's here I'm having to do... stuff... which, sadly, I know I wouldn't be doing if I was still on my own. In a warped sort of way it's a win-win situation. Ethan's got what for some unknown reason he thinks he wants, and I've got a reason to get off my butt and, regardless of not exactly doing it with any great purpose, move around.

Sleep, as I'd hoped, comes quickly. The – perhaps obligatory – nightmare, however, when it comes it does so not only quickly but also with an almost tedious lack of creativity. Where other arguably normal people might have nightmares about fire-breathing dragons or aliens obsessed with blowing up either the Empire State Building or White House, I get, complete with Dolby Surround Sound, brilliant 3D recreations of events I want to forget ever having experienced in real life. This one, of course, has me back in the Carters' lovingly created dungeon and the details are so crystal clear and perfect that I honestly feel as though I'm there, that it's happening all over again. The pain is so great that I can't, not even if my life depended on it, tell which of my wounds is the worst and, even over the sound of my pitiful, monotonous keening I can hear disembodied voices discussing my predicament as though I was no more interesting a proposition than what meal they might like to choose from a menu.

“Do we intervene?”

“We could, but... I don't know. Is there any point?”

“He's part of a team, isn't he? You'd think if they cared they'd be here.”

“Well, exactly.”

“Clearly though, they don't.”

“Clearly.”

“So why should we?”

“To be honest with you, I can't say that I do.”

“I don't think anyone does.”

“Will... Hey... It's okay...”

Another voice, this one achingly familiar, breaks through the litany of disinterest and, even though it hurts like hell, I strain against the binds holding me tight and try to turn towards it.

“Come on, Will. You're safe and you need to wake up.”

A gentle hand closing around my shoulder both in the realm of the nightmare and in reality causing me to snap, gasping for breath, to consciousness, I lurch into a half-sitting position and find myself being immediately pulled against a warm, strong body.

“Hey... Shhh...” Ethan murmurs, rubbing circles into my back with the palm of his hand as, momentarily too out of it to struggle, I slump limply against him. “It's okay. Everything's okay.”

“Speak for yourself,” I mutter breathlessly as, abruptly coming to my senses, I push weakly away from Ethan and hug my arms around my chest. “Just... Nightmare. It was a nightmare.”

“No shit,” Ethan retorts, offering me a grim smile of understanding as he reaches out his hand and makes to run his fingers along my arm. “Hey...” Frowning as, already feeling as though – I'd quite like the ground to open up and swallow me whole – I've put him out enough, I shuffle back beyond his reach, he places his hand on his lap and slowly shakes his head. “Will...”

Embarrassment effortlessly taking over from my initial relief at waking to Ethan's reassuring presence, I ignore the obvious concern in his voice and search desperately for a way to change the topic from my current freak out. Seizing on the fact that I can't see Ethan's crutches – which, according to all my research, he needs to use for at least a day or two – anywhere, I gesture limply in the vague direction of his knee and blandly query, “How'd you get here without your crutches?”

“What?” A flicker of pain crossing over Ethan's face as, or so I suspect anyway, his knee makes it known with perfect timing that it resents his lack of crutches, he grimaces and shrugs. “Oh. My only goal being to see if you were okay, I must have forgot them in my haste to get moving.”

“Yeah, well...” Brushing off the obvious concern in Ethan's response, I climb out of bed and start to walk towards the door. “Just stay there and I'll get them for you.”

“Will... You don't need...”

“What's more,” I continue, talking all over Ethan as, all the time keeping my back to him, I pause in the doorway, “although I'll bring them in here for you, I think it may be better for your knee if we swap beds and you just stay put here. You've probably already put more strain on it than it's ready for and I don't want to be responsible for risking the healing process.”

“Will!”

Ignoring the exasperation in Ethan's voice, I leave the bedroom and make my way down the corridor to the guest bedroom. Entering it, I grab both his crutches and the pillows I'm insisting he use to keep his leg elevated before returning to room and gazing impassive at Ethan as he sits looking more tired than I've ever seen him on edge of the bed. “Go on, get into bed,” I state softly as I rest the crutches within easy reach against the bedside table. “I'll sleep in the guest room.”

Sighing, Ethan – surprises me by doing as he's told which, in turn, tells me that his knee is hurting more than he wants to own up to – gives a weary shrug and slowly climbs under the bedding. “There's no point arguing with you, is there?” he murmurs, trying to catch my eyes as I carefully place the pillows under his left leg. When this fails he tries to grab my wrist but, half expecting it, I'm too quick for him and step back before he can touch me.

“I just want what's best for you,” I reply matter-of-factly as snatching my sleeping pills up from the bedside table, I head back over to the door.

“And you don't think that's what I want for you too?” Ethan responds with another sigh. “Will... Please...”

“Goodnight, Ethan,” I state, once again talking over the top of him. “I... I'll see you in the morning.”

Turning the light off, I walk out of the bedroom without waiting for a response and, dry swallowing two sleeping pills as I go, return to the guest room. I'm no less tired than when I went to sleep however long ago it was but, just call me gutless, I'm returning to the nothingness offered by the pills in preference to opening myself to another nightmare. That, and, not wanting to think about what just happened, all I want to do is sleep. If I stay awake I'll dwell not only on the details of the nightmare, but also on Ethan and how good it was to be in his arms and how much I want...

Only I can't. There's no point.

Tumbling in to bed just as the pills begin to work their magic, my last thoughts are that the bedding smells of Ethan and that, for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel at peace.

~*~

It doesn't – and the sooner I accept this particular delusion the better – pay me to think. If it did I'd be destitute and living on the streets, which, given that this in turn would mean I'd never run the risk of experiencing another freak out in front of an open refrigerator again, would actually probably be a good thing.

Just...

Fuck me.

I doubt I could put on a better demonstration of there being something exceptionally not right with me if I tried. Standing in front of a predominantly empty fridge and staring at it as though transfixed, as though I can't quite believe what I'm seeing and don't know how to react, is, and let's face it here, not normal. Nor is feeling as though the slightest thing could cause the sudden dithery feeling in my limbs to shift effortlessly over to full blown trembling.

It's not normal and it's not right.

And to think, until the fridge of all things set me off, I'd been reasonably content with how things had been going. Today is the second full day of Ethan's won't-take-no-for-an-answer presence in my miserable excuse for a life and – again, until now – I've been coping with it better than I thought I would. Yesterday, proving both Dr Simpkins' diagnosis of fatigue and that something I once thought impossible... is... possible, he, Mr-Can't-Stay-Still, stayed in bed all day and I was able to go about my new found, albeit faked, interest in housework without feeling as though I was constantly under his watchful eye. I made sure he ate, always had enough to drink and that his leg remained elevated and his knee adequately iced, and he accepted that I didn't want to hear anything he had to say and simply gave up trying to talk to me. It might not have been perfect, but it worked well enough and we got through the day with ease. I then, thanks to the nightmare-destroying sleeping pills, slept soundly through the night and actually woke up this morning feeling... almost... positive about things. Positive enough, in fact, that when Ethan limped sans crutches into the living room to take up residence in my favourite armchair I merely brought him a cup of coffee and his iPad before turning my attention to pretending to know what it was I was doing out in the garden with the pruning shears.

I thought, obviously foolishly, that things were going more or less okay. Granted, I still had my head buried in the sand, and while I may be stupid I'm still not quite stupid enough to think Ethan isn't simply biding his time before trying to get through to me again, but... Things, they could have been worse.

Like now for example.

Now is worse. Far worse.

Right now, a zombie-like existence in The Retreat is looking good. Positively desirable, even.

It's close to seven in the evening. Time, in other words, to start thinking about preparing something for dinner. I'm not, as usual, hungry, but that's essentially irrelevant. It's dinner time, I have a guest, and everything from logic to common decency dictates that I offer him something to eat.

Only...

There isn't anything to eat and, I don't know, something in my fractured brain is telling me that this would just about have to be my ultimate failing as a human being.

Can't plan in advance.

Can't look after a guest.

Can't even remember to do the not exactly hard task of ordering groceries on-line.

Can't do anything right.

Clinging to the refrigerator door in order to remain upright, I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my free hand and try to focus on regulating my increasingly ragged breathing. On top of everything else I'm too hot and this too is my own stupid fault. It's a hot summer's day, I've been faffing around in the garden trying to differentiate between weeds and actual plants for the past however many hours, and, quite unable to cope with the sight of my bare flesh and all its bruises and scars at the moment, I'm wearing a sweat shirt over jeans. I'm overdressed, I've been out in the sun for too long, and not only am I having a melt down but I'm also melting while I'm at it.

I...

I need to sit down or have a glass of water. While I'm at it, getting a fucking grip would be nice too.

What I don't need, however, is what I've got.

An audience of one appearing out of nowhere in the doorway and immediately looking concerned.

Just fucking marvellous. My free fall down the rabbit hole is now complete.

“Will?” Stepping into the kitchen, Ethan holds a hesitant hand out towards me that, as he no doubt expected I would, I step back from. “While I suspect this is the last thing you want to hear, are you okay?”

Biting back the instant, knee-jerk response of 'do I fucking look okay?', I make a point of not looking at Ethan and gesture at the refrigerator. “There's nothing to eat,” I announce, knowing that I sound both helpless and hopeless but not even really having it in me to care. “I... I wanted to make you something for dinner, but... But there's nothing.”

Moving closer to the refrigerator in order to see the empty shelves for himself – while at the same time making a point not to touch me – Ethan nods and gives an unbothered shrug. “So there is,” he agrees. “Not to worry though. You tell me what sort of take-away you feel like and I'll make the call.”

“I...” Releasing my limpet-like hold on the refrigerator door, I numbly shake my head and, wanting to get further away from Ethan, shift over to the bench and lean my back against it. “You're my guest and I... I can't even look after you properly!” I exclaim. “It... You should be calling for a cab to get the hell away from me, not for take-away.”

“You don't have to look after me,” Ethan replies in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice as he closes the refrigerator door and limps across the kitchen to position himself in front of me. “I'm more than capable of getting myself something to eat and...

“But you're healing,” I interrupt, giving another shake of my head. “You should be being looked after, not being left to fend for yourself and I... I can't even do that! I can't do anything...”

“Will...” Being nothing if not stubborn, Ethan reaches for me again and this time, as I automatically shift away, our eyes accidentally meet. The look of concern in Ethan's is so intense that it quite literally takes my breath away and I react by immediately going on the defensive. “What? Don't look at me like that, like... like you're only just realising that I'm already broken and not worth the effort!”

“You're not broken, Will,” Ethan replies gently as, seeing as he's as determined as he is stubborn, he succeeds in lightly placing his hand on my arm. “You're...”

“No?” I snort, shaking off his hand and folding my arms across my chest. “I don't think you're looking properly. Of course I'm fucking broken. Either that or I've just lost my mind and should be dumped in a padded cell somewhere and forgotten about.”

“You're not broken,” he repeats, closing his hand around my upper arm and this time, as I try to pull away, refusing to let go, “but nor am I the only one healing here. You're being too hard on yourself, Will, and I know it might be easy for me to say, but you've got to stop. Just...” Trailing off, he uses his free hand to gently cup my chin and, with the slightest application of pressure, tilts my head back until, really, I have no choice other than to look at him. “I know, let's go out,” he continues, randomly changing the subject. “How about I take you to that sushi place you like? Well...” He glances down at his knee. “I'll let you drive me there, unless, of course, you'd rather take a cab. It... It's your call, Will. Whatever you want. Just let me know and I'll do whatever I can to make it happen.”

Something in either Ethan's – clearly heartfelt – response or the tone of his voice having a miraculously calming effect on me, I sigh heavily and nod. I haven't left the house since leaving the hospital and I'll have to have a shower and change first but, somehow, and don't ask me how, Ethan's idea suddenly strikes me as a good one. We'll be stuck both in a car and at a table together, but there'll be people all around us at the restaurant which should hopefully be enough of a reason to keep my wits about me there, and, well, God knows going out would have to be better than retreating to my bedroom to dwell on what just happened. So... Fine. We'll go out for sushi together.

“Okay,” I murmur with a nod. “Because we have to eat, I'll drive you to the sushi place and you can buy me dinner.”

Looking surprised at my sudden capitulation, Ethan raises his eyebrow and keeps his hand closed around my arm. “You sure?” he queries dubiously. “It was just a spur of the moment suggestion. I don't want to...

“I'm sure,” I state, flashing him a smile that I just know would actually look as forced as it feels. “Just let me have a quick shower and then we'll go.”

~*~

Entering the bedroom, I strip off my long-sleeve t-shirt, throw it onto the floor and make my way over to the chest-of-drawers for a replacement. The summer heat not letting up any, I'm in need of a fresh top after, and I'm sure Ethan – who's not feeling any great love for his knee at the moment and who, not that I have any intention of sharing this with him, could whinge for gold over how long he feels it's taking to fully heal – would agree with me here, going for the world's slowest walk around the block and, pulling open the drawer, I hesitate over which one to grab. Liking the sight of my bare flesh no more than I did this morning when I got dressed, another long-sleeve top is my default choice, but... It's hot. There's no point hiding from the damn scars because there's not a thing I can do about them and... not being so hot all the time would make a nice change, so...

Making my mind up, I've just closed my hand around a t-shirt when the sound of a sharp intake of breath alerts me to Ethan's presence in the doorway. Knowing all too well the horrific sight I make – the weight loss and loss of definition, while bad, pale in comparison to the bruising, cuts, welts and burns that are healing even slower than Ethan's knee – I quickly drop the t-shirt back into the drawer and pull on the first long-sleeve top I come to before reluctantly turning around. 

“If you think it looks bad, you should try it from my side of the fence,” I offer lightly by way of getting in first as Ethan gazes at me wide-eyed from just inside the door. He looks pale which, given how flushed he looked when we returned from the walk only a few minutes ago, doesn't strike me a good sign and nor do I like the expression of raw anguish on his face. “But... Uh... While it mightn't look it, it's getting better,” I continue, some weird compulsion making me want to fill the silence with chatter. “Seriously. The pain and discomfort is getting less every day and... Uh... You know something, today makes it three weeks since I...” Was inadvertently rescued by the CIA, but I don't think he really needs to hear that. “Well, since I first entered the hospital and, as we all know, these things take time and...”

“I read the hospital report,” Ethan interrupts as, finally shaking off some of his shock, he slowly walks across the room, “but... just call it cowardly of me... I didn't, I... I couldn't look at the photographs. The written report was graphic enough, so I knew it was bad, but...” Grimacing, he comes to a stop in front of me as, like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler, I stand frozen to the spot by the chest-of-drawers. “Oh God, Will, I... Seeing it for myself, it...” Clearly not knowing what to say, he sighs heavily and places his hands gently on my shoulders. “If this is what it looks like three weeks after the event, then...”

“We've all been there,” I mutter when it becomes obvious that he's not going to continue. I want to move, to get out from under his pained gaze, but something – perhaps a small voice whispering that now the moment, the inevitable moment, is upon us that it could well be a case of now or never – stops me “Besides, it's history,” I add as Ethan removes his hands from my shoulders only to take my right hand in his and lead me over to the bed. “Ethan? It's okay, honestly. I'm okay. A little battle scarred, yeah, but I'll live.”

Sinking heavily down on the edge of the mattress, Ethan waits until, with only the briefest of longing glances at the doorway, I've sat down next to him before releasing my hand and burying his head in his hands. “I blame myself,” he mumbles, directing his confession in the general direction of his knees as, it being just about the last thing I expected to hear slip from his lips, I turn to stare at him. “Of course I do. I shouldn't have let the Secretary talk me into leaving and taking the team to Paris. I didn't want to go and God knows I should have listened to my heart over my head, but I... I did. I left you in the hands of an inexperienced team who...”

“Couldn't find a whore in a whorehouse, according to Jane,” I interject as, without even thinking about what I'm doing, I shift closer to Ethan and rest my thigh against his. Nineteen hours have passed since what I'm now referring to as the Refrigerator-Moment and I already feel as though I'm back to simply taking my standing with Ethan for granted. It's probably not the right way to put it and maybe it won't even last, but since last night I've been far more... accepting... of having him around. Dinner at the sushi restaurant went well and we managed to fill the time talking easily about things of no consequence to the point where there were occasional moments where it was like nothing had ever happened, that we were simply out for a meal together. It was a... start. A nice one at that, one that I doubt I ever would have acknowledged I was in need of until I was actually in the middle of it.

And now...

Now we're in the middle of something else I suspect, however unpleasant in might be, we both need.

“Jane said you were asleep when she and Benji visited,” Ethan replies, turning his head to glance fleetingly at me before returning his gaze to his much-maligned knee. “In fact, she was convinced of it.”

“I was pretending to be asleep because I didn't want to...” Not wanting to say it, I trail off and shrug. “I heard everything though.”

“Good. They'll both be glad.” Sighing again, Ethan clenches his fingers into the fabric of his three-quarter length cargo pants. “Now... I know you don't want to hear this, and, hey, if it helps I don't really want to be having to say it either, but... Just let me finish. I blame myself for what happened to you, and the only reason I'm not being eaten alive by the guilt is the fact I know I can't change any of it, not now, anyway. I would if I could. Hell, I'd give anything for none of this to have happened, but... I can't. I can't undo any of it and know that I just have to move forward, that if I give in to the self-hatred that I'll just lose it and that... that's not going to achieve anything.”

Following Ethan's lead, I gaze down at my knees and sigh. “Tell me about,” I murmur quietly. “I've already lost it, on more than one occasion, I might add, and you're right. It doesn't achieve anything other than to make me feel worse than I already did.”

“You're working through it, Will, not losing it,” Ethan replies, lightly resting his right hand on my thigh and, in the process, giving me something other than my knees to stare at. “What happened to you it was... it is... a lot to deal with and while I know I'm no shrink, I think you're doing fine. I've seen agents packed off to The Retreat who hadn't even... endured... half of what you've been through, so... So don't be too hard on yourself. You'll get there. I know you will.”

“I...” Swallowing hard, I abruptly stand up and walk over to the window. I don't want to be doing this, but know that I have to. Ethan's finally shared his side of the story with me and it's only fair that I reply in kind. I'm just afraid that it will put a dint in his faith in me, that's all. Wanting to talk me up for having survived the torture is one thing, but knowing that most of my... issues... stem from feelings of worthlessness, well... That's likely to be something else entirely. But... As I can't hide from it any more than I can from the scars that litter my body, it's time to suck it up and come clean.

Leaning against the window frame, I keep my back to Ethan and look out into the rear garden. “They made me feel useless, like I wasn't worth anything,” I whisper. “The Carters, they... Well, you've already seen some of what they did to me, but the CIA and... and one of our own, Preston, they treated me like I was either a curiosity or... or a liar! Preston, I swear he thought I was in bed with the CIA and a traitor to IMF. He... Goddamn it!” Blinking back tears, I angrily swipe the back of my hand across my eyes and, in what Ethan is probably beginning to think is my new trademark move, fold my arms across my chest. “He was the worst of the lot. Not once did the bastard ask if I was up to talking to him and he just kept at me.”

“You don't have to worry about Preston anymore,” Ethan responds drily as he shifts around to the other side of the bed in order to be closer to me. “One of your nurses, the one with the British accent, told me the effect he had on you and, after looking in to him for a bit and seeing that people skills were well and truly not his strong point, I've had him moved over into the audio transcribing section. In other words, unless he wants to spend the rest of his career typing out wiretaps, his days with the IMF are most likely numbered in very low digits.”

“I'm sure the CIA would love to have him,” I mutter, touched that Ethan would make the effort to, let's face it, so cleverly screw over Preston for me. “But... Thanks. You probably think I'm being stupid, or weak even, but feeling useless, like I wasn't... worth anything to anyone, that's been the worst of it. The pain is annoying, but... the doubt... that's been crippling. It... It's made me lose all perspective, like I don't know who I am or where I stand anymore.”

“Where you stand,” Ethan murmurs, standing up to join me by the window, “is exactly where you stood before the Carters ever laid eyes on you. None of what happened is your fault, Will. I know it feels like it, but your team never abandoned you, not really and certainly not intentionally at any rate, and your place, should it even be what you want, is still there waiting for you. And...” Closing his hand around mine, he squeezes it tightly. “And the reason it will always be open for you is because you're brilliant. You're brilliant at what you do and the part you play is so crucial that we'd only be half the team without you. Just... Look at me, Will...” Pausing, he waits until I've tentatively lifted my head and am more or less meeting his gaze through downcast eyes before adding, “You're not useless and you're definitely not worthless. Knowing that things have added up to make you feel this way just... kills me... but, regardless of what direction you want your life to take now, you're never to think you're anything other than... essential. Did you hear that? You're essential and if you take nothing else out of this little... heart-to-heart... you've got to take that.”

“But...” I'm not egotistical enough to want to believe him for any other reason than it's preferable to the crushing feelings of worthlessness I've been carrying around with me, but... It's hard. “I'm not...”

“You are,” Ethan states adamantly, cutting me off as he grabs my other hand and squeezes them both tightly together. “I can put it another way for you though if you'd like, and that's that as it took long enough for you to let me into your life in the first place that there's no way I'm backing off and giving up on you. I love you, William Brandt, and I'm here to tell you right here and now that I'll do whatever it takes to... put you back together again. Even if you can never forgive me for stupidly choosing duty over you. Even if you choose not to return to field work and to go back to being an analyst. Whatever you want and whatever it takes. I'm not going anywhere.”

~*~

“Shit!”

The sound of Ethan swearing immediately causing me to lose interest in the – not exactly interesting to begin with – article on Kim Jong-un I'd been reading, I place the iPad on the arm of the chair and stand up. “You okay?” I call out as I begin to walk towards the door. Last time I'd seen Ethan he'd been in the process of setting up his laptop on the dining table in order to have a general trawl through recent IMF reports but, given both his knee and his penchant to push himself too far, if he's done something stupid and fallen on his ass I can't help but feel obliged to check up on him and, besides, the article really was that uninteresting that I'll take any diversion that I can get.

“I'm fine,” Ethan calls back, “but Taylor's not.”

“Taylor?” Entering the dining room, I rack my brain for why the name Taylor should mean something to me and, when the penny drops, groan. “Charlie Taylor, yeah? Isn't he the one Jane and Benji are helping in North Carolina?”

“Uh-huh.” Swivelling in his chair to face me, Ethan frowns and shakes his head. “And he's dead. His body was fished out of the Catawba River this morning. Preliminary reports indicate that he'd been shot execution style.”

“Shit!” Pulling out the chair next to Ethan's, I sit down and, although something in my gut tells me that I'm not going to like the answer, ask the obvious. “What about Jane and Benji? Have they reported in?”

Scowling, Ethan shakes his head again and returns his attention to the laptop. “This latest reporting format is so fucking stupid that I've got to log into their individual pages before I can find anything out,” he complains. “Just... Give me a second...”

“And their mission, what was it exactly?” I query, knowing that Ethan's more than capable of multi-tasking and that he'll be able to both answer my question and navigate the database at the same time. “I know I've been out of the loop, but I wasn't aware of any particular threat in the Charlotte region.”

“Rumour had it that Aristov was in town,” Ethan responds, narrowing his eyes and shooting the laptop a look of equal parts annoyance and agitation as it refuses to give him the information he's after any quicker. “The rumour, however, didn't extend to include whether he was looking to buy or sell, so that's what Taylor and the others were there to find out. It should have been simple.”

Grigory Aristov being, of course, one of Russia's premier arms dealers and always a person of interest on IMFs 'watch list'. “The other rumour that's been floating around Aristov,” I murmur, “is that he's connected, that he... has friends in high places.”

“And if there is a mole Taylor could have been compromised,” Ethan finishes, his expression falling as the computer finally coughs up what he'd been searching for and, without him even having to say anything I know it's not what either of us wanted to know. “Fuck! They've missed both of their last check ins and...” Pausing, he scrolls down the page and quickly reads through the report as it appears on the screen. “And... Shit! It's believed that they may be in the hands of some guy called Caleb Elkins who...”

“Elkins?” I interrupt, the name being both one I never expected to hear again and one that I actually know all too well. “Did you just say Caleb Elkins might have them?”

Ethan nods and taps his finger on the screen. “That's right. Caleb Elkins.” Glancing up from the computer, he gives me an expectant look. “Do you know of him?”

“I not only know of him, but I once... knew... him,” I reply, drumming my fingers against the table as a familiar itch, that of the slow burn of adrenaline seeping through my veins and making me want to be on the move, like, now, creeps over me. “He's known as the Trader because that's what he does. You name it and he'll trade in it. Weapons, drugs, cash, stolen goods, diamonds, hell, he'd even turn his hand to livestock if he thought there was a profit to be made from it. I've never known him to dabble in people, but...” I shrug. “Who knows. Given that it's hard to say no to Aristov, if that's what he was offering then I can't see the Trader knocking him back. He's a... middleman, that's all. Connected, and with his finger on the pulse, but killing, as there's no money to made from it, isn't his thing. If he does have Jane and Benji then he'd be wanting to pass them on as quickly as he possibly could.”

“And you know all of this... how... exactly?” Ethan prompts as he closes the laptop screen in order to give me his full attention. “I know you know just about everything about everyone, but a... middleman... in Charlotte, North Carolina? I mean, he's not exactly in Aristov's realm, is he...” 

I shrug again and continue to drum my fingers against the tabletop. “As I already mentioned, I once knew him,” I reply. “Five years ago, all in the name of inter-agency ass kissing, I was loaned to ATF and went undercover in Elkins' world. He's always been of considerable interest because of all of his connections and the range of goods that pass through him. While he's just about as criminal as they come, ATF like to keep him out of prison because they get more out of him doing what he does than they would if he was behind bars. Don't get me wrong though, he's not an informant and is actually completely ignorant in relation to how... useful... he's found to be.”

“So, without even knowing it, he's an asset,” Ethan mutters, reaching across the table and placing his hand over mine in an attempt to stop the relentless drumming. “An asset who just happens to have Jane and Benji.”

Pulling my hands out from under Ethan's, I jam them between my knees in order to keep them still. “Whatever the plan is for extraction, they'll have to move fast as there's no way Elkins would want to be keeping them around,” I respond. “Humans would be far too... hot... an item for him.”

“Felstead and his team are already on their way. He's a good agent, so...”

“That's their plan?” I interject, shaking my head as a sudden – inescapable – thought pops into it. “They're just sending in another team? No. That won't do. Unless you actually know the Trader you don't have a snowflake's chance in hell of being able to locate him. Just... In order to be able to get in contact with him you first need to know... how... to get in contact with him.”

“So...” Ethan gives me a curious look as he no doubt experiences his own light bulb moment. “Give Felstead a call and share your intel about...”

“No.” Standing up, I push the chair back under the table and clench my hands around the back of it. “Sharing the intel won't do any good as Elkins won't recognise Felstead and...”

“He could wear a mask.”

“No.” Straightening up, I look down at Ethan and, knowing that I have to, that he's probably expecting it anyway, just say it. “It has to be me. I know Elkins, I know how he operates, how to contact him, and I know that I can get him to deal with me. Getting Felstead up to speed, it... it would take too long.”

Pushing his chair back, Ethan meets my gaze and frowns. “Will...”

“It has to be me,” I repeat, knowing what he's going to say and not needing to hear it. I appreciate that there's a good chance I'm not up for it, that just because I've had a good twenty-four hours doesn't mean I'm firmly on the road to full recovery, but... What else can I do? Jane and Benji's lives are at stake and, regardless of what the cost may ultimately be to me, I owe it to them to do everything I can to ensure their safety.

“Look... I see your logic and, yes, I want to be involved too, but, Will, you're...”

“A basket case?” I offer drily. “I know that and you know that, but there's no reason Elkins ever has to know it.”

“I wasn't going to say that. You're not...”

“I am. But, whatever. I'm not going to stand here arguing with you when I need to get to Charlotte.”

“Fine.” Sighing, Ethan stands up. “I'll call the Secretary to let him know we'll be joining Felstead.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn't.”

“No?” Ethan gives me another curious look. “Felstead should know to expect us.”

Glossing over Ethan's use of 'us' and 'we', I shake my head again. “If you call the Secretary he'll want to ensure that we're fit for duty and, while I hate to break this to you, I'm fairly confident we'd both fail the tests.”

“Fuck. I hadn't thought of that,” Ethan mutters. “You're right though, if we're...”

“We? I might be fucked in the head, but what about your knee?”

“You didn't seriously think for a second that I was just going to let you go off by yourself, did you?”

“Well, here's a newsflash for you, I wasn't exactly planning on asking your permission.”

“You don't have to. Just as I don't have to ask yours to tag along.”

Realising that A) this debate – which will only ever have one ending – is just wasting time, B) we've already reached the point of a stalemate, and C) to be perfectly honest I want Ethan with me anyway, I give an airy shrug and nod. “Fine. We're both going to Charlotte, then.”

“Of course...” Ethan runs his fingers through his hair as what can be best described as a disgruntled sigh slips past his lips. “I don't want to say this, but... but it has to be raised, so... You're right. My knee is an issue and you've got to be prepared for the fact you might end up on your own. I'll do what I can, that goes without saying, but...”

“Felstead and his team will be around, and...” I close my hand around Ethan's shoulder and offer him a grim smile. “I can do this. Hell... I have to do this and... It'll be fine, you'll see.”

“Got a plan?” Ethan queries, changing tack ever-so-slightly because he knows as well as I do that time is very much of the essence and that we need to get moving sooner rather than later.

I nod and give his shoulder a squeeze before turning around and beginning to walk towards the door. “Sort of. It'll take some phone calls, but we can do that on the road.” Pausing in the doorway, I glance over my shoulder and watch Ethan as he packs up his laptop. “I thought we'd drive. It'll probably be quicker than arranging flights and we can still be in Charlotte in six or so hours.”

“That's what I was thinking too,” Ethan agrees as, he computer safely stored in its bag, he picks it up and follows me out the door. “You still got a bag packed and ready to go?”

“Of course,” I confirm, gesturing towards my bedroom. “I'll just get it and a few things from my closet while you get yours organised. With what we'll have between us and what Felstead will have access to, we'll be set.”

“Will... I just need to be sure that you're...”

“Trust me,” I state flatly, cutting Ethan off because I don't like the hint of doubt in his voice that echoes the one in my own head, “I can do this. I... have... to do this.

~*~

The plan is not only as sound as it's ever likely to get but it's also one-hundred percent set in motion. Felstead, who I think greeted Ethan's – 'I'm telling you, not asking you' – take-over with open arms as he hadn't even quite got a handle on Elkins yet, let alone come up with a way to find him, is on board and, my contacts still standing, Elkins himself has agreed to meet with me in the morning. The synthetic cocaine, a joint IMF / ATF creation that's taken years of hard work to reach the point of being able to be unleashed on an unsuspecting criminal population, is neatly wrapped in brown paper and hidden inside a backpack that's lying out next to the clothes I'm going to wear. It's passed all the tests in that it looks and tastes like the real cocaine, but while it still offers a mild hit the true beauty of the synthetic stuff is that we've managed to make it traceable. So once Elkins passes it on and it starts making its way through the drug addict and lowlife community, ATF will be able to track it. ATF, for their part, know that we're in town and have given the deployment of the fake cocaine the green light.

I have the coke, I have the clothes, and I have the meet all arranged. Wanting to let those in the know that I was back in town, my plan of a making a scene to draw attention to myself in one of Charlotte's less than salubrious bars worked a treat and now, having done every single solitary thing that I can think of doing, all I have to do is wait to see Elkins.

Wait and, of course, worry.

The meet going down in less than five hours time, I should be asleep. What's more, I... want... to be asleep. I'm tired, I have a big – failure is not an option – day ahead of me and know that I need to get at least a few hours sleep. I can't even take a sleeping pill because I deliberately didn't bring any with me. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, I decided against bringing the pills because I want to meet Elkins with a clear head.

In hindsight, as I stand staring out the window of my motel room down at a dark, abandoned Charlotte street, I'm not so sure I made the right decision and kind of wish I had a pill with me. Just one would do. I only need a couple of hours sleep, just enough to get me through to daybreak, as right now I just don't know how I'm going to make it through the night. It's ridiculous. I've done far more today than I have in weeks yet still sleep eludes me. The drive in itself, close to six hours of concentrating on both maintaining as much speed as possible while being as safe as possible, should have been enough to wipe me out. Throw in the planning, the phone calls, the ever-present worry about Jane and Benji and the airy declarations to Ethan that I have everything under control, and, seriously, I should be out for the count and snoring my head off.

Only I'm not.

It's just gone three AM in the morning and, having waved the white flag of defeat after lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling for two hours, I'm standing at the window gazing down at absolutely nothing in particular and trying to fight off mounting panic. 

What if I'm wrong and I can't do this?

What if my plan doesn't work and Elkins disappears with Jane and Benji?

What if Elkins sees through my cover and – dearGoditdoesn'tevenbearthinkingabout – takes me captive as well?

What if... I fail and I prove beyond all doubt that I really am useless?

The sound of the door opening behind me barely making it through the loop of self-doubt in my head, I don't bother to turn around and actually flinch as though I didn't even know he was there when Ethan lightly places his hands on my shoulders.

“It's a good plan and it will work,” he murmurs softly. “Of course, it will probably work better if you get some sleep.”

“Will it?” I whisper, keeping my gaze fixed on the window and trying to ignore both how warm and... reassuring... Ethan's hands feel through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. “What if...”

“Shhh... You've got everything covered,” Ethan replies as he slowly begins to massage the tension out of shoulders. “It'll work, Will.”

Shaking my head numbly, I lean back against Ethan and sigh. “If I'm wrong, if you're wrong, the... the consequences, they're...”

“We're not wrong,” he interrupts as, not having it in me to fight, I allow him to gently turn me around until we're facing each other. “I have faith in you, Will, and I know that everything will go to plan tomorrow and that we'll get the others back safely. For your sake as much as anyone else's, I wouldn't have let you get this far if I didn't think you had it in you.”

Caught hook, line and sinker by the tremor of emotion in Ethan's voice, I hesitantly meet his gaze and the tender expression of love I see in his eyes quite literally causes my breath to catch in my throat. Suddenly, and I'm as taken aback by this as I am shocked by it, the only coherent thought to make any sense to me is that I...

I want Ethan.

I want him like I've always wanted him.

I want his hands on my bare flesh and for his touch to, however momentarily, banish the doubt and the darkness.

I want to lose myself in innocent pressure in the hope of being able to remember what it's like.

“I...” Slumping against Ethan as his arms automatically wrap around my waist, I rest my head on his shoulder and whisper the first thing that comes to mind. “I've missed you. Maybe I have no right to, but I... I've missed you so much.”

“Right... doesn't even come into it,” Ethan replies, placing a kiss on my forehead as we embrace as though our very lives depended on it. “And I've missed you too. Not just... this,” he continues with another kiss, this time on the top of my head, “but... you. Your confidence, your smile, your... Just... Everything. I've missed you, Will, I've missed everything about you.”

There being no way I can think of replying to any of that, I lift my head and capture Ethan's lips with mine for a moist, long overdue kiss that I swear I can feel all the way down to my toes. Somehow, without once breaking the kiss, we make it over to the bed and it's only when the back of my knees are hitting the mattress that a murmur of common sense tries to enter my head.

Draping my arms over Ethan's shoulders, I pull back from the kiss and gasp, “Your knee...”

“Your...” Ethan pulls a face and trails his fingers down first my arm and then my side. “... Everything...”

It's the truth, which means it's not at all funny, but the moment somehow demanding it, I grin anyway and, shrugging, grab Ethan's hand. “We'll just have to improvise then.”

~*~

I realise three things simultaneously as the black cotton hood is pulled away from my head and I find myself blinking in the sudden light. One is that Elkins' dead-from-the-knees-up minions have taken me to meet him in what looks for all the world like an abandoned office. Two is that time has not been at all kind to Elkins, and three is the most important of them all in that – thank God for small mercies – I feel both perfectly calm and in complete control.

Yes, I have no idea where I am other than in an empty, save for an old desk, Elkins and his two knuckle-draggers, office and, yes, my phone and gun are lying safely out of reach on said desk, but... It doesn't matter. Ethan's right. I can do this. I know what I'm doing and I have every confidence that I can see it through. I know Elkins. I know how he operates and how to play him. His minions, while big and muscly, hold little interest for me and, if push come to shove, I think I'd be able to take down the pair of them even in my current state. I'm here. I accepted both the hood and gratuitously rough pat down calmly and now that it's finally show time I'm good to go.

Not just because I have to be, but because I am. I've been here before and I know what I'm doing.

So...

Game on.

“Jack Farris,” Elkins beams, flashing teeth that are even worse than I remember as, obviously pleased to see me, he gives my shoulder a friendly slap that, given his size, nearly sends me flat on my ass. “What brings you back to these parts, huh?”

Straightening myself up, I return Elkins' smile with a baleful one of my own and shrug. “You know. The usual. Word on the street is that you've got something I want and I know that I've got something you want.”

“Same old, same old, yeah?” Elkins responds, still beaming as he turns around and waddles over to lean his back against the desk. “You're looking good, Jack. Real good. What's your secret, huh? There you are looking like you ain't changed a bit, and here I am looking like a shadow of my former self. It just ain't fair.”

Shadow? More like a super-sized version of his former self. Elkins was never small a small man, but now he's a ball of fat on legs that actually wobbles when he moves. If that – and the teeth – wasn't bad enough he's also attempting to rock the comb-over-to-hide-the-huge-bald-patch look and the once tolerable dragon tattoo on his right arm has, with no hint of a design whatsoever, been turned into a full sleeve. I get the impression that if he likes it, he gets his tattoo artist to ink it permanently into his skin regardless of whether it matches what's already there or not. And that, I suspect, explains why a truly tasteless skull complete with flames shooting out of its eye sockets is nestled next to both a Ford emblem and the obligatory red heart with 'Mom' written in it.

It – none of it, for that matter – isn't a good look.

Not, however, that I'm going to share this with him.

“You look like you're living the good life, that's all,” I mutter, strolling over to the desk to get closer to him. “Me? I'm always on the move and never get time to settle down anywhere.”

Elkins nods and, in a sign of trust and good faith, throws me my gun and phone. “You got me there,” he replies, giving a curt nod towards his minions to indicate that all's good and they can leave the room. “My life, it is good, and as you just said you've got something you know I'll want, I'm hoping it's about to get even better.”

“Trust me, if this goes the way I want it to, you're definitely going to get the more profitable end of the deal,” I respond, tucking my gun in the small of my back but keeping the phone in my hand. “So... How about we get down to business, yeah?”

Elkins gives another nod, this time one of acceptance, and folds his arms across his prominent belly. “Sounds good to me,” he grins. “So, Jack, what do you think I've got that you so desperately need.”

Liking that he's had enough of small talk as I have, I sidle even closer and, leaning forward, murmur, “Rumour has it that you may have found yourself with a couple of IMF agents.”

“IM-what-now?” Elkins mutters, frowning as he looks over at me as though I've just started speaking Latin as far as he's concerned. “Sorry, Jack, but I ain't got no idea what you're talking about.”

“IMF,” I repeat, choking back my impatience because for a second there I forgot that while Elkins is as cunning as they come, actual intelligence has never been one of his strongest points. “It stands, if you can believe it or not, for Impossible Mission Force. They're like the CIA, only more annoying and even harder to squash.”

“Well...” His frown intensifying, Elkins bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head. “I do have me a couple of people, a man and a woman, that may be what you're looking for,” he replies hesitantly. “You know me, people ain't my bag at all, but the guy who was making the trade he ain't one to say no to, if you know what I mean.”

Turning my phone on, I quickly bring up the two official IMF photos of Jane and Benji from their personnel file and shove the screen in Elkins' face. “Look familiar?”

Squinting at the phone, he peers at the photos for a few seconds before, to my great relief, nodding. “ Yeah. That's them,” he confirms. “Who'd you say they work for again?”

“IMF,” I repeat yet again, hiding my glee at how Elkins is playing neatly into my plan behind a scowl. “If it helps, think of it standing for Inept Mother Fuckers like I do.”

“Useless Mother Fuckers,” Elkins – proving once and for that he really isn't very bright at all – snickers. “I like it. Tell me though, Jack, what makes you want a couple of UMF agents? From what I remember of our past dealings you ain't never been one for people either.”

“I'm not,” I retort, jamming my phone into the pocket of my jeans and, knowing what's going to have to come, taking a step back. “I'm just making an exception for this lot because I owe them. I owe them big time.”

“Yeah?” Raising an eyebrow in interest, Elkins looks me up and down and, when I don't play ball by immediately continuing, prompts, “What did they do to you, huh? They must have done something pretty darn bad...”

“How about this?” I interrupt as, pretending to be put out by having to resort to show and tell, I strip my long-sleeve t-shirt off and present my... carefully accentuated... bruises and abrasions to him. Ethan, who is far more artistic than I am – although, going on his expression as he was reluctantly applying the stage paint to my chest and back, the same flesh which he been touching in a far different manner only a few hours before, earlier this morning, I think in this particular instance he was definitely regretting it – did a spectacular job of making them look worse than ever and, as Elkins' eyes widen and he lets out a low whistle, I know that the effort was worth it. I hate standing here on show like this but, he needed a believable reason for why I was wanting to take a couple of agents off his hands and this, revenge, was the best idea I could come up with it.

“Shit, man,” Elkins murmurs as, apparently feeling as though he needs to a get a closer look, he pushes away from the desk and slowly walks around me. “The bastards worked you over good. Fuck... How'd you even get away?”

I shrug and, when I'm certain he's seen all that he needs to see, pull my top back on. “Once they'd had their fun they just let me go,” I mutter. “Whether I'm so... generous... when I'm the one in charge, however, remains to be seen. Now... The agents. Are you prepared to trade or not?”

Elkins gives me a cunning look as he returns to his position by the desk. “Depends on what you're offering.”

Digging into my pocket, I retrieve a small brown envelope that Dumb and Dumber, Elkins' minions missed when they frisked me, and toss it over to him. “This, obviously, is only a sample, a good will gesture if you like,” I state, watching as his eyes light up with interest as he catches the envelope and peers inside at its white powdery contents. “Go ahead. Give it a taste. It's A grade and there's plenty more where that came from.”

“How much more?” Elkins queries as, doing as suggested, he dips his finger into the coke and brings it up to his tongue for a taste. “Remember, there's two of them and...”

“I'm prepared to offer ten kilos of what you've just sampled,” I interject, shooting him a no-nonsense look which I hope he translates as dare to try it on for more. “That's five per agent and, if you play your cards right, a profit of over a million.”

“Ten kilos, huh?” Elkins nods to himself and carefully stashes the envelope in his pocket. “You must really want to get back at that Mother Fucking lot.”

“Oh. You have no fucking idea. What you saw on my chest? I'm like that... all... over.”

“In that case, I can see why you're so hot to get your own back. I'll need to run a few tests first, of course, you know, to check purity and all that, but... If everything comes back how I suspect it will, I say we've got a deal.”

Elkins' response being like music to my ears, I flash him a triumphant smile. “That's what I was very much hoping you'd say. Now...” I know I'm running the risk of hearing something I'm not going to like here but, just call it in the name of future – as in, Elkins' future – planning, I have to know. “The woman, is she... clean?”

“Clean?” Elkins echoes, looking confused, as though I'm once again messing with his head by lapsing into Latin. “They ain't got no shower where I'm keeping them, if that's what you're meaning?”

“Not that sort of clean,” I mutter, leering at Elkins and, just in case he really is that thick that he doesn't know what I'm getting at, grabbing my crotch for good measure. “You know, have you... tasted... the goods yet?”

“Oh...” Looking, it just has to be said, supremely unbothered by the fact I could even ask such a thing, he shrugs and shakes his head. “Nope. She's too skinny for me. I like my women with a little meat on my bones. So... There you go, she's all yours. Just call it a little bonus on the house.”

Grinning, I hold my right hand out towards Elkins' and wait for him to take it in is. “It really has been a pleasure doing business with you, my old friend,” I state, giving his fleshy paw a hearty shake. “Now... You'll text me once the tests are done and you're ready for the exchange, yeah?”

“Give me a couple of hours then, yeah, I'll text you the address of where to meet and then they're both yours,” Elkins confirms, gesturing towards the door. “My men will take you back to your car. This afternoon though, and this is only because I trust you, you can make your own way to the exchange point.”

Spying an opening that I hadn't been expecting, I nod my thanks and, nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that, murmur, “In that case, is it okay if I bring my... business partner... along for the ride? He's not only helped with collecting the coke but he's got as much riding on this trade as I have.”

“You vouch for him?” Elkins queries more matter-of-factly than suspiciously as he begins to walk with me towards the door.

“On my life.” It's not, especially given how well this has all gone so far, that I feel any great need to have Ethan with me for the exchange, more that if either Jane or Benji are injured that he can tend to the while I drive. So, yeah... While not a deal breaker, I'll take getting the okay for Ethan to tag along if I can get it.

Elkins shrugs and flashes me an easy, unbothered smile. “So long as he stays in the car then, fine, whatever, he can come along. Given that the chick in particular is a feisty one, I suspect you could do with a hand subduing her anyway.”

~*~

“Either of the two grunts look familiar?” Ethan queries as I bring the nondescript black van I'm driving to a stop in front of the office of the small 'mom and pop' wreckers Elkins has chosen for the handover. While obviously still a going concern, if what's left of the 2011 Chrysler 300 to the left of the van is anything to go by, but having well and truly seen better days, the wrecking yard is as good a place for Elkins to hole up in as any and I can't say I was surprised when the address he sent to my phone led us up the driveway. Wreckers, and I know this from experience, make a great place to plan an ambush from and, just as an added bonus when you take into consideration all the car trunks at your disposal, they also offer about one-hundred-and-one places to hide in.

Not, however, that I'm worried about Elkins having had a change of heart about our deal. It's just not in his nature. If his rat-cunning second nature gets so much as a whiff of doubt about any of his dealings he swiftly puts his Plan A into action and goes to ground.

So... Again. We're good to go.

“The one with stupid peroxide hair was one of the two who copped a grope this morning,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose at the memory. “Don't know the other one though.”

Reaching for the door handle, Ethan hesitates over opening it and quickly glances at me. “Think we're still good?”

“My gut says we're still good,” I confirm as, actions speaking louder than words, I open the door and, grabbing the backpack from the passenger footwell, climb out of the van. “See you in a couple of minutes.”

“I'll still be here,” Ethan mutters, getting out of the van and, because he knows it's expected of him by our audience of rock-apes, walking around to the side door and sliding it open so that they can see that it is indeed empty.

Shouldering the backpack, I march up the minion closest to the door of the garage and, when he indicates that he wants to frisk me, fold my arms across my chest and out stare him. “What?” I demand. “You think I'd be standing here if your boss wasn't waiting to see me?”

Looking... befuddled... that I'm giving him attitude, the man-mountain shakes his head and stares helplessly at the back of his fellow minion as he's on the receiving end of the same story of refusal from Ethan. “Orders are orders,” he mumbles at last.

“Touch me,” I state with a grim smile, “and you'll be sucking your next month of meals through a straw. I'm here to make a deal with the Trader, not fuck around with a nobody.”

“Listen, you...”

“Let him in,” Elkins' familiar voice shouts out from inside the garage, “and stop fucking around.”

Broadening my smile, I give the doorman's shoulder a condescending pat on the way past and walk into the garage. “I know they're only doing their job, but your hired help leave a lot to be desired,” I complain, spotting Elkins standing by the wreck of an old Chevrolet Impala and making my way over to him. Coming to a stop a couple of feet away from him, I drop the backpack onto the dirty, grease stained floor and glance down at it pointedly. “As you can see, I've come with my part of the deal, so where's yours?”

“Just wanted to make sure you weren't jerking me around first,” Elkins retorts, eyeing the bag greedily. “A man can never be too careful, you know.”

“Tell me about it.” Crouching down, I open the bag and grab one of the brown-paper wrapped packages from inside it. Tearing back the paper so he can see the block of white powder safely contained behind a strong layer of plastic wrap, I stand up and throw the package across to Elkins. “Here. That's one kilo right there, and you have my word that the other nine are here at my feet. So... Your turn.”

His gaze fixed on the coke, Elkins' nods and, glancing over his shoulder, calls out, “Bring them in.”

Schooling my expression into a mask of hard, calculating expectation, I watch as two more minions march Jane and Benji out from inside a small office at the back of the garage. While they're both gagged, and look tired, dirty and fairly obviously roughed up, they're still on their feet and managing to move freely and it takes all my willpower and training not to sigh in relief. Spotting me at the same time, Benji's look of surprise nearly gives the game away but, thinking quickly, Jane fakes a fall that allows her to get into Benji's face and no doubt silently convey that he has to watch himself.

“You have no idea how Goddamn happy you've just made me,” I comment flatly as, picking the backpack up, I shove it at Elkins as, with a deliberate strut to me step, I walk over to where the neckless minions are holding my friends. “Just... This is going to be so fucking perfect, it really is.” Stopping in front of Jane, I roughly grab her chin in order to force her to look at me and she retaliates with a well aimed head-butt that, solely because I know I have to, I immediately respond to by slapping her hard across the cheek. “Oh yeah,” I grin, pushing the minion holding Jane out of the way and grabbing her tightly bound wrists, “this is going to be even more fun than I imagined.”

“Well, you enjoy yourself,” Elkins mutters, carefully zipping up the backpack before glancing at the minion still holding Benji and tilting his head in the direction of the door. “We good?”

Shoving Jane in the back, I start to march her out of the garage as Benji and his handler struggle to keep pace. “Oh... We're more than good.” Pausing in the doorway, I give Jane a none-too-gentle shake to really hammer home my performance of who's boss and, turning around, offer Elkins a half bow. “As always, it's been a pleasure doing business with you.” 

“Well, you always know where to fine me,” Elkins replies, giving me a small smile as, clutching the backpack to his chest, he walks around the Impala and disappears.

“Your boss, he really is the man,” I mutter to the blank-faced minion as we reach the van and, knowing that she'll fight me all the way if I don't do it this way, I abruptly pick Jane up and throw her into the back of it. She lands heavily on the bare metal floor and, momentarily forgetting where I am and why I'm doing what I'm doing, I can't help but grimace in sympathy. “Shit...”

“Damaging the goods even before we've had our fun?” Ethan murmurs, making a tsking sound of disapproval under his breath as he steps in to rescue the moment. “I don't know. I can't take you anywhere.”

“Next time you make the fucking deal yourself then,” I snap, snatching Benji away from the minion and, with one almighty shove, sending him hurtling into the van. “Just...” I jab my finger into Ethan's chest as he slides the van door shut. “Don't fucking start with me, yeah. I'm not in the mood.”

“Clearly,” he retorts, calmly batting my hand away as I make to jab him again and beginning to walk around to the passenger side. “I think I know what will make you feel better though...”

“Mmm...” Winking at the minion, I climb into the van and pull the door shut with a bang. Once Ethan has joined me I start the engine, put the van into reverse and within seconds we're on the road and the wreckers yard is nothing more than a speck in the rear vision mirror.

Too wired by what just went down to be thinking about anything other than my driving, I very nearly jump out of skin when Ethan reaches across and surprises hell out of me by lightly resting his hand on my thigh.

“I knew you could do it,” he states simply. “This was all you, Will, and... and I knew all along that you could do it.”

~*~

The calm... after... the storm.

It's always the same. Whether I'm on top of my game or picking up the pieces like I have been recently. The... moment... when it's all over. The planning and organising, the nitpicking and troubleshooting, the actual events of the mission itself... all of it, it's all history. Successful, thank God, history, but still just history. The worrying, the perfecting of the act, the adrenaline that goes hand in hand with it, when it's over it's like everything just up and deserts you and you're left feeling curiously... empty. Jane calls it the Post Mission Blues while Ethan, who feels it more keenly than any of us, merely pretends to those around him that it doesn't even exist and that his mood is no different than it was either pre or mid mission.

It does exist though and I've been around Ethan when he's been feeling as... blank and as listless... as I feel now. His acting skills being far more highly tuned than mine, he hides it better than I do, but he still feels it. We all do. It's only natural. A small display of human emotion to show, however hard we might like to try to both hide and deny it, that we're no more worthy of super-hero status than the average person just going about his or her daily business.

Jane and Benji are safe. I did it. As missions go it was a basic one, one even that a rookie with the right intel would have been successfully able to pull off. But, given the state I was in earlier in the week and how I honestly thought hiding behind my front door for the rest of my life was the way to go, I not only came up with a logical, workable plan but I also, with only minimal assistance, saw it through. I'm not saying that I'm cured as I know I still have a long way to go. My body is still healing, I'd only be lying if I said I wasn't afraid of being captured and tortured again and, well, one walk-in-the-park type mission isn't exactly enough to silence once and for all that small voice of self-doubt in my head. It's definitely both quietened it and, in a manner of speaking, allowed me to see the light at the end of the long dark tunnel, but it's still there. Perhaps though it's always been there. Let's face it, I quit field work after Croatia because of it. I doubted my skills so I became an analyst and hid behind the safe and secure walls of headquarters. This time others made me doubt myself but at the end of the day there's little difference. Once the seed is planted it tries to take me over until I wake up to myself and start to fight.

I'd love to be able to say that it won't happen again, but it probably will. I've just got to be more aware of it and more prepared to fight, that's all. That, and I need to realise that I'm not alone and the sooner I both accept this and make the most of it the better it will be for all concerned.

Ethan.

I have Ethan. I'm not entirely sure why, seeing as he's now seen me at my worst, but I do and I'd be a complete fool to forget it. He's stood by me, despite my best efforts to push him away and...

… If I'm not mistaken that's probably him now knocking on the bathroom door in order to make sure I haven't disappeared on him or done something stupid like fall asleep in the bath.

Glancing at my watch I note with some surprise that I've been sitting on the closed toilet seat and clutching the damp flannel in my hand for close to half an hour already and that, with any luck, the doctor will have finished checking Jane and Benji over and Ethan's only looking for me to share the news that they're both okay. With this in mind, I stand up and, just as his knocking starts to become a little heavier, open the door. “There is another bathroom in this suite, you know,” I murmur as, actually looking surprised that I even opened the door, Ethan gives me a strange, unreadable look and follows me over to the basin. “Hey, if you want some privacy you just have to...”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Ethan interrupts, glancing first at my bare torso and then at the flannel I'm still holding in my hand. “Dr Stanton has given the others a clean, other, that is, than usual annoyances of mild dehydration and bruising, bill of health and Felstead's report is already written up and on its way to the Secretary.” Pausing, he shrugs and, leaning his back against the basin, flashes me a relieved smile. “It appears that Aristov was as anxious to get rid of them as Elkins was as they were pretty much left alone.”

“Good.” I mirror Ethan's smile with one of my own. “I'm really glad to hear that. Oh... As for me? I'm fine.” I gesture at the stage make-up still disfiguring my torso with the flannel. “Just getting this muck off.”

“Want a hand?” Ethan murmurs, choosing, to his credit, not to pass comment on the obvious fact that the flannel is clearly yet to have touched my skin.

Shaking my head, I reach out my hand and brush my fingers along the cuff of his white shirt. “Better not. You'd only get your shirt dirty.”

“My shirt?” A truly mischievous glint appearing in Ethan's eyes, he sidles closer to me and, before I can react, let alone stop him, swipes his fingers down the middle of my chest. “You mean... this shirt?” he continues cheekily, wiping his stained fingers down the front of his shirt and, quite happily, it just has to be said, transferring the make-up on to the white fabric. “I don't care about the shirt, Will, I care about you...”

Ethan's gesture being as simple as it was perfect, I meet his gaze and slowly nod. “Thanks,” I whisper as he leans forward and softly kisses my cheek. “Knowing that I come before a shirt is... gratifying....”

“You come before everything,” Ethan replies, kissing my forehead this time as he gently pries the flannel from my hand. “These past few weeks, they've made me realise that there are actually far more important things in life than missions and I... I just want you to know that.”

“I...” His shirt already being history, I see no reason to talk myself out of what I suddenly want to do and pull Ethan to me for an enveloping hug. “I'm getting there,” I murmur thickly as, dropping the flannel, he hugs me back. “Thanks to you I'm definitely getting there.

“That's what I was very much hoping to hear.” Carefully cupping my jaw, Ethan leans in for a kiss when, it apparently being the day for a closed bathroom door to mean absolutely nothing, someone begins to loudly hammer on the door.

“Can't a man even get any privacy in the bathroom these days?” I mutter as, catching Ethan's eye, we both start to laugh.

“Whatever you two are doing in there, I'm giving you thirty seconds to finish up and get out here,” Jane calls out. “We want to see Will.”

“Listen,” Ethan smirks, draping his arm around my shoulders and slowly turning me to face the door. “I think that's your fan club calling.”

“I'd say, as I'm not planning on going anywhere, that they can wait,” I murmur wryly as the hammering increases in tempo, “but I don't know if the door will hold out much longer.”

“Better get it over and done with then,” Ethan replies as he pulls the door open and – throws me to the wolves – steps back in order to give Jane and Benji free rein. “Enjoy. You've earned it.”

“You know, something?” Jane states, her gaze drawn first to my now smeared with make-up torso and then to Ethan's shirt which looks like a toddler's painting smock as, all but literally jumping up and down on the spot, Benji crowds into the bathroom behind her. “I'm so happy to see you,” she continues with a laugh as she hugs me, “that I'm not even going to ask...”

~*~

Thanking Dr Atkins for his time, I open the door to his office and step out into the corridor. As I would have felt fairly confident betting my life on, I've barely made it a couple of steps at most away from his office when Ethan silently materialises by my side. Smiling a greeting, I shove my hands in my pockets and, not wanting to be the first one to fall prey to curiosity, wait for him to ask about the outcome of my meeting with the psychiatrist.

“You're not going to volunteer the result, are you?” he mutters with a truly award winning put upon sigh as, side by side, we walk along what I've always imagined to be the longest corridor in all of IMF's quite substantial headquarters.

“Why would I want to do that?” I tease, giving Ethan what I really hope passes as my best impression of an innocent expression.

“Because I've been standing around bored out of my skull waiting for you?”

“So? Seeing as I know Benji put Angry Birds on your phone, it's not my fault you were bored. You could have been playing that while you waited.”

“Do you even know the first thing about Angry Birds other than its name and the fact it can be played on a phone?”

“It's...” I shrug and, knowing full well I'm pushing his buttons, grin. “It's a game about apparently pissed off birds. What else is there to know about it?”

“Hmm...” Ethan rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Okay. Fine. I'll try to appeal to your better nature, then.”

“Assuming, that is, I have one.”

My facetiousness finally getting to him, Ethan – gives in and lowers himself to my current level – pouts and shakes his head again. “And there I was thinking you liked me,” he complains in a whiny tone. “But, fine, whatever. Right now I can't say I even care if you passed or not.”

“Anyone ever tell you you're no fun?” I retort with a laugh as I come to a stop in front of Ethan. “You first though... How'd the physical go?”

Following my lead and coming to a stop, Ethan shrugs expansively and continues to pout. “ What makes you think I want to tell you?”

“Because I thought you liked me?”

Wagging his finger at me in a 'you'll get yours' gesture, Ethan nods his confirmation and grins. “The knee held up and I'm good to go. You?”

“The physical with more ease than I actually expected,” I reply plainly, having had my fun for the time being. “The psych eval, however... Well. I passed. But only by the barest of margins and have to dutifully present to Dr Atkins' office after every mission so he can check for himself how all the cracks are holding up.”

His own good humour fading slightly, Ethan frowns and, because we're alone in the never-ending corridor, places his hand on my arm. “Returning to active duty, it's what you want though, yeah?” he – just as he has on too many occasions than I care to remember throughout the four weeks since our jaunt to Charlotte – queries cautiously. “I know you're sick of hearing it, but the only opinion that matters here is yours, Will. Not mine, not Jane's, not Benji's, hell, not even Atkins'. If you want to return to being an analyst or...”

“It's what I want,” I confirm, cutting Ethan off because I've heard it all before and because, while it's always nice to be reassured that those you care about have your back, I don't need to hear it again. “No-one's forcing my hand and, seriously, trust me. It's what I want. I wouldn't have jumped through all the hoops placed in front of me otherwise and, like you, I'm good to go.”

And I am too.

I'm both good to go and content with my decision to return as soon as I possibly can to field work. It's what I want. To take each day as it comes and to, despite the associated risks, live the life I've made for myself. I want the sense of purpose being an IMF agent has always given me and I want the friendship and... belonging... that being part of a close-knit team offers.

I want to move forward, to put the past behind me and I want, most of all, Ethan.

Who I know, and not a day goes by that I don't thank my lucky stars for this, I have.

Looking at me closely, Ethan smiles hesitantly and squeezes his hand around my arm. “Given that I swear those hoops get higher and harder every time, when you put it that way you have to be good to go,” he murmurs, capturing my gaze with his as he tries to satisfy himself by reading the truth in my eyes. “Okay, you win,” he adds, just as the need to blink is beginning to get the better of me. “You really are mad enough to want to go back out there with me.”

“Told you.” Sensing that Ethan's about to continue walking, I suddenly feel as though I just have to say something and grab his hand to stop him. “I... I just want to thank you for... uh... being stubborn enough to not give up on me and to just... stand by me,” I state. “I know it hasn't been easy but I want you to know that I appreciate it and that... that I probably wouldn't be standing here with you right now if you hadn't... fought... for me.”

“I...” Smiling softly as he notices Jane and Benji waiting for us at the end of the corridor, Ethan nods in their direction and closing his hand around mine, entwines our fingers together. “Actually, make that... we. We never gave up on you, Will, and will always stand by you just as you'll always stand by us. We're a team, a very good team at that, and we stick together. It's what we do.” Pausing, he once again catches my gaze with his and the look of love I see in his eyes is almost enough to make me feel weak at the knees. “I can't, as much as I wish I could, change what happened. Nor, regardless of how much I'd love to be able to, promise you that nothing like it will happen again as we both know that I'd be just wasting my breath, that there's just no point in making promises that I can't guarantee being able to keep. Believe me though when I say that I'll do everything in my power to never... ever, and I don't care how convincing the argument might be, put anything before you again.”

“And that...” Our current audience of Jane and Benji having seen far worse before – and if anyone makes the mistake of joining us in the corridor right at this exact moment, then, hey, they can just consider it my gift of something to gossip about around the water cooler – I grab Ethan by the lapels of his suit jacket and pull him to me for a quick but thorough kiss. “... Is more than good enough for me.”

~ end ~


End file.
